


Luck of the Iris

by doodlegirll, Pimento



Series: leave you light from mine [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blowjobs, Castiel in the Bunker, Charlie is alive, Cursed objects, Dean/Cas Reverse Bang 2018, Enthusiasic Consent, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Make Out Sessions in Bathrooms, Premature Ejaculation, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sam is a Saint, The Author Regrets Nothing, The title is punny, Unapologetic Scooby Doo References, Winchester Luck, Witch Curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-21 01:56:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14906243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlegirll/pseuds/doodlegirll, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pimento/pseuds/Pimento
Summary: “It's scientific name isiris germanica,known more commonly as a bearded iris, from the familyIridaceae. They're native to the temperate zones of the Northern hemisphere.” Castiel explains. “They're a very common garden flower.”—Any item can be hexed or cursed to be lucky, even a seemingly innocuous iris at a farmer market, as Castiel soon comes to understand. While the Winchesters search for the witch responsible and try to find a cure, Castiel and Dean must come face to face with the feelings they have for one another, and realize that maybe with a little bit of luck and a little bit of love, good things do happen...even if it means carrying a four foot iris every where you go.





	Luck of the Iris

**Author's Note:**

> My first Reverse Bang! I'm so excited to unleash this puppy unto the world! What was supposed to be a nice, short fic turned into a 27k word monster baby about curses and irises and dorks pining, and I am so proud of it. 
> 
> The art for this fic was done by the AMAZING Pimentogirl! She was my cheerleader, my alpha AND beta reader, and my editor throughout the entire process, and I am beyond honored to have been able to work with her on this challenge. Pimmy, thank you for letting me write about your art; I hope I did it justice. [You can find the art masterpost HERE.](https://pimentogirl.tumblr.com/post/175346457399/art-for-the-deancasreversebang-for)
> 
> This fic is slightly canon divergent in a few points:  
> 1.) Charlie is alive (I was beyond thrilled with au!Charlie but I'd rather our Charlie have never died at all *side eye*)  
> 2.) Claire and Cas have a tenuous relationship forming in that Claire still lives with Jody, but calls, texts, and sends Cas postcards often. I plan to go into details in a later timestamp fic, but Claire is not a hunter and she and Alex are currently traveling.  
> 3.) Dean was cured of the Mark of Cain via Cas sacrificing his Grace. I've always preferred this to canon, because canon was, frankly, underwhelming. I also HATED S11 so yeah, that never happened. Booyah.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146072938@N08/41885723085/in/album-72157696241640251/)

The little tag stuck inside the pot says, “I feel lucky.” The flower is a towering bearded iris, a fuschia purple in color with blue and periwinkle layers. Despite the various other flowers in the greenhouse, it’s still a splash of color against the verdant greens of the ferns and palms surrounding it. It stands a few feet tall – forty seven inches, according to the tag – with its pot sitting atop an upturned one, creating almost a pedestal. Castiel cocks his head as he regards the flower over the rims of the sunglasses he'd found in the glove box of the Impala; something about it seems out of place, but he can’t quite put his finger on what it is without the aid of his angel “mojo.”

It's a beautiful flower, there is no denying that. It stands regal and proud above all the other luscious plants in this particular row, like a king atop a terra cotta throne, looking down upon his kingdom. The petals are lush and velveteen, the color vibrant and stark, with a sturdy stalk. Castiel smiles slightly; it calls to mind the irises that had been present in the Garden, before the fall of man. He wonders if this iris is a direct descendant.

Castiel isn't sure what, exactly, drew him to the iris in the first place; he and Sam had dragged Dean out of bed to drive up to Hastings to the farmers market with them, with promises of pancakes at a local diner should he do so. Dean, unable to resist food, had begrudgingly trudged out of bed at 7 AM - or “ass-o-clock” as he called it - to blearily down three cups of coffee before they all loaded into the Impala.

Castiel and Sam had been making trips to the farmers market somewhat of a regular thing the last few months. Since Castiel had officially given up his Grace and Fallen, the Winchesters had set it upon themselves to make sure that Castiel got the most out of his human experience this time around. While Dean educated him on how to live fast and die young, namely through talks of sex, booze, rock and roll, and greasy foods, Sam had taken it upon himself to teach Castiel the more mundane, quieter side. He'd been the one to teach Castiel how to use the washer and dryer, how to get grass stains out of the knees of his jeans, how to tell an unripe avocado from a ripe one, and when he'd asked him if Castiel wanted to join him on a trip to Hastings to go to the farmers market for a few herbs for some of their hex bags, Castiel had agreed.

Since then, hunts permitting, they'd tried to make it a bimonthly affair. It was usually just the two of them, but this time they'd decided to entice Dean into coming with them, though after Dean had rolled his eyes at the stalls and booths lining the sidewalk of the market, Castiel had wondered for a brief moment why. After he'd caught sight of the booth selling homemade pie, however, he'd been sold.

Castiel is pulled away from staring at the iris by the sound of his phone vibrating in the pocket of his jacket. He pulls it out to find a message from Dean, asking him where he is. Castiel sends him a text in reply, letting him know he's in the greenhouse on the little off road by the coffee shop, and slips the phone into his jeans pocket. He plucks lint from the hand me down Metallica t-shirt he inherited from Dean, and shifts the canvas bag in his left hand. Inside is the jar of honey he'd bought from a beekeeper, several honeycrisp apples, his favorite peppermint castile soap, and a homemade almond butter he'd bought from a shy teenage girl trying to fundraise for the local animal shelter. He shifts through his spoils, trying in vain to ignore the iris as it taunts him inanimately from its perch.

There truly is something about this flower that almost seems to be...calling to him in a way Castiel can't quite put his finger on.

It's incredibly disconcerting sometimes, being human.

A few moments later, he hears footsteps crunching through the gravel of the greenhouse floor, echoing pleasantly against the birdsong beyond the greenhouse glass.

“Cas?” A familiar voice calls. Dean.

“Over here, Dean.” Castiel calls back, and a few seconds later, Dean rounds the corner.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146072938@N08/41868779475/in/album-72157696241640251/)

“There you are,” Dean says. “Sammy ran into that organic food store for more of his rabbit food. I told him I'd come find you. You almost ready to go?”

Castiel nods. “Yes, I am.” He says. He looks back at the flower for a moment, still pondering. Dean follows his gaze to the iris and cocks an eyebrow.

“What kind of flower is that?” He asks.

“It's scientific name is _iris germanica_ , known more commonly as a bearded iris, from the family _Iridaceae._ They're native to the temperate zones of the Northern hemisphere.” Castiel explains. “They're a very common garden flower.”

“That thing has to be what, four feet high?”

“More around three-point-nine feet, roughly.” Castiel corrects. He frowns and squints at the iris.

“Dude, what's with the smitey face?” Dean asks. “What’d it ever do to you?”

“This is not the facial expression I wore when I smote monsters, Dean,” Castiel rebukes. “And it didn't do anything to me. There is just something about it that confounds me, and I don't know what it is.”

Dean laughs. “That is _so_ the face you wore when you smited things, Cas.” Castiel scowls at him, and he holds out a hand placatingly. “Alright, alright, fine. Anyway, you gonna buy the flower or what?”

Castiel sighs. “I hadn’t planned on it.” He says.

“Why not? You were just talking to Claire the other day about planting flowers when you gave her the tour of the garden you have outside the bunker. May as well get started, right?”

“Well…” Cas muses. “Irises _do_ grow well in warm climates. Kansas is arid enough, and the soil around the bunker is fertile enough…” He regards the iris once more. The feeling has not subsided, and Castiel is beginning to wonder if it’s just another one of the inscrutable parts of being human.

“C’mon, make up your mind, dude. Clock’s a tickin’.” Dean says, not without good humor.

“Fine.” Castiel concedes, and reaches out and gingerly picks up the iris’s pot. Its awkward to walk with it, considering how large it is. Dean reaches out and grabs one end of the pot, and they walk with the iris between them to the little desk set up in the corner at the front of the greenhouse, where a young woman with black hair sits in a lawn chair reading a country chic magazine. She smiles as they approach.

“Looks like it’s Lucky’s lucky day!” She says brightly, grinning as Dean and Castiel set the flower down on the concrete in front of her. “It just got in here last week. It got brought in with a couple ferns, begonias, and African violets from an estate sale. Little old lady, died in her sleep when a shelf over her bed fell and hit her, bless her heart. Her family didn't want any of her plants, so they brought them to us. I'm glad to see it go to a new home!”

“Why's it called Lucky anyway?” Dean asks.

The woman shrugs. “It came with that sign stuck in the pot. Your guess is as good as mine.” She pulls a sale pad from inside a lockbox on the desk and starts filling it out. “Either way, it's a gorgeous iris. I'm kind of sorry to see it go.” She smiles at Castiel. “Are you giving it to someone? Your mother, maybe?”

“I don't have a mother,” Castiel says, because it's true.

“Oh!” The woman blushes, and Castiel wonders if he was too blunt; Dean is always telling him he's a little quick on the draw when it comes to the truth sometimes. “A wife or girlfriend maybe?”

Castiel dares a single glance at Dean, who looks mildly amused despite his previous impatience.

“I am unmarried, and do not have a significant female partner,” Castiel says after a moment, and he hopes the woman did not see the look he gave Dean.

If she did notice, she gives no indication as she finishes writing up the pay slip.

“Well, it will look beautiful no matter where you put it, even if it's on a front porch.” She says, “That’ll be $15 for Lucky here, please.”

Castiel takes a twenty from his wallet and hands it to the woman. She gives him a smile and hands him his change and his copy of the receipt.

“Thanks again!” she says. “Enjoy!”

“Thanks.” Dean replies as he picks up his side of the pot again.

“Have a nice day, ma'am,” Cas calls back to her.

Once they're outside, Castiel allows Dean to lead him through the walkways between the tents and booths of the farmers market towards the organic food store Sam prefers. They set the iris down on the sidewalk, and Dean smirks when he holds out his hand.

“Lemme see that receipt she gave you,” he says.

Castiel frowns and squints at him. “Why?”

“Dude, just gimme. I'll give it back.” Dean promises. Castiel fishes it out of his pocket and hands the crumpled piece of paper to Dean, who scans it before he grins and hands it back.

“Yep. Knew it.” He says. He points to the bottom left corner of the receipt, where a name - Brandie - a phone number, and a smiley face is scrawled in neat print. “She totally slipped you her number.”

Castiel swallows. In the months since he's been human, he's had this happen several times, mostly written on napkins in bars while on hunts. And while Castiel can appreciate the flattery that comes with both men and women finding him attractive enough to slip him their numbers in the hopes of a response, no human has caught and kept his rapt attention whatsoever.

None, that is, except for one.

Yet, despite having felt his longing (for _years_ ) when Castiel had still been an angel, since he'd become human - and thus unable to sense his longing - Dean has made no indication of interest in Castiel; at least, no more than usual, and definitely nothing that seems as though it’s going anywhere. He'd welcomed Castiel into the bunker and on hunts with open arms and all the PB&J Castiel could eat; had taught him how to shave with a straight razor (with the grain so as to avoid ingrown hairs); and strip, clean, load, and fire a gun, but he'd never given any indication that he thought of Castiel as anything other than his best friend, his brother in arms.

“So, you gonna call her back?” Dean asks as Castiel crumples the receipt and drops it into his canvas bag. Castiel shakes his head.

“I have no interest in pursuing a romantic relationship with her, Dean.” He says.

“Dude, forget _romance,”_ Dean says the word flippantly, as though it's something scoffable. “You deserve a break now and then, Cas. Find somebody and get laid for once. You don't ever have to ask her out again if you don't want to. But a night of fun never hurt nobody. It's a part of being human.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I have no interest in pursuing a one night stand with her either, Dean.”

“I'm just sayin’,” Dean continues. “That your right hand will only get you so far, buddy.”

“Dean, I am not going to discuss my masturbatory proclivities with you.” Castiel says.

“ _Ugh,_ ” Sam groans as he comes up beside them, tipping his face towards the sky. “ _Why_ do I have to come into conversations at just the right time?”

“Because for a moose, you're surprisingly light footed.” Dean deadpans. “I should make you wear a bell, like a cat. Then we’d know when you were coming so we could shut up.”

Sam glares. “Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“I'm sorry, Sam.” Castiel apologizes.

“It's fine, Cas.” Sam’s eyebrows raise as he notices the iris. “What's with the iris?”

“I bought it at the greenhouse.” Castiel explains. “Dean thought it would be a good addition to the garden I'm planning.”

“Irises are great flowers.” Sam agrees. “It's just...a little big? How are you gonna get it home?”

“It should fit in the footwell of the backseat.” Castiel muses. “Or I could tilt the pot a bit to accommodate for its height should it still be too tall.”

“Either way, you get dirt in my Baby, and _you're_ vacuuming her out.” Dean gripes. He glances in the small folding cart Sam had taken from the trunk of the Impala. He points to a grayish lump sitting snugly on top. “Dude, what even _is_ that?! It looks like a mutant.”

Sam levels him with what Dean calls his “bitch face”.

“It’s celery root, Dean.” He says. “It makes a great mashed potato substitute.”

“Or you could just eat mashed potatoes.”

“It has half the carbs of potatoes.”

“You love potatoes!”

“That's not the point, Dean.” Sam says, his voice laced with annoyance at his older brother's jabs. “It's about variety.”

“Variety my ass,” Dean grumbles. “You can keep your damn freaky root; I'll stick to good old fashioned spuds.”

Castiel tries to hide his smile at the brothers’ bickering as he and Dean take their respective sides of the iris’s pot and begin their trek back to the Impala. He helps Sam unload the cart of its canvas bags, adding his own to the pile in the trunk before unloading some of their more perishable items - including the three pies Dean had bought from the vendor - into the cooler in the other footwell. He then very carefully maneuvers the iris into the driver’s side footwell of the backseat. The iris fits nicely, just as he'd hoped, and Castiel very carefully slides in behind it, settling the pot between his knees.

“You good back there, Cas?” Dean asks, glancing over his shoulder as he starts the ignition.

Castiel nods. “I'm good.”

Dean grins at him and puts the car into drive. “Then let's get home. Those pies are calling my name.”

 

***

 

The sky had begun to darken the closer they'd gotten to the Kansas border, thick black storm clouds blanketing the horizon as lightning flickered. Just as they crossed into Lebanon, the sky opened up. They've driven straight into the storm, rain pelting on the car’s windshield and hood relentlessly. Dean had been hoping to make it back to the bunker before all hell broke loose, but apparently, Mother Nature had had other ideas.

“We'd better hurry, Dean,” Sam says, showing Dean the weather app on his phone. “They're saying golfball sized hail is moving this way.”

Dean groans. Of fucking _course_ it would hail right after he'd given Baby a new buff job. _Of course_. That's just his luck.

He steps on the gas, trying to avoid the deeper mud puddles that dot the dusty road leading to the bunker. He's just eased Baby into the garage when he hears the plinking noise of hail as it hits the metal garage door, bouncing on the ground outside. They'd missed being caught in it by mere seconds.

“Well,” Dean says as he kills the ignition, looking behind him at the hailstorm. “That was lucky.”

“No kidding.” Sam remarks. He turns and looks at Cas in the backseat, who is still holding that damn iris. “Might wanna hold off on putting the iris outside until tomorrow, Cas. My app says it could storm like this off and on all night.”

Cas nods. “Alright.”

“Ahhh, the joys of living in Tornado Alley,” Dean grunts as he opens the door and gets out of the Impala. He hits the button to close the garage door just as lightning cracks outside, thunder booming. “At least we live underground.”

“Here, Cas,” he hears his brother say to the former angel that Dean definitely _does not_ see in any brotherly light, despite his callings in the past. He turns and sees Sam unfold the portable shopping cart, and lifts the iris’s pot into it. “This will make it easier for you to move until you can plant it.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas’s voice is so grateful, genuine as though no one has ever been as thoughtful as Sam had been at that moment.

“You're welcome.” Sam smiles warmly at him before he glances at Dean. “Dean, help me get these bags into the kitchen.”

Dean, for once, doesn't complain as he complies with his brother’s request, and grabs several of the plastic and reusable bags Cas and Sam are so fond of. He hands the one holding the three pies he'd bought at the market to Cas, who gingerly accepts it as though it were a priceless artifact. Cas’s reverence for everything is just one of the things Dean loves about him.

Ahem. _Likes very much_ about him.

Definitely not love.

Whatever.

Together, they make their way towards the bunker proper, beelining straight into the kitchen. Cas wheels his iris in behind him and tucks it into a corner of the library before following the brothers into the kitchen.

Dean is putting the bags on the counter when he hears a clatter and the distinct sound of a body hitting the floor. He turns to find Cas sprawled out on the floor, the bag containing the pies he’d been carrying next to him. One of them - the cherry one - had fallen out of the plastic container it had been packed in, sending its contents smearing across the floor in what would be an impressive arch, if it didn’t call to mind blood splatter so easily.

“Cas!” Dean and Sam both are at his side in an instant, reaching out to grab him by the upper arms to haul him back to his feet. “You okay?”

Cas winces as he stands, flexing the fingers of his right hand.

“I believe I may have hurt my wrist,” he admits. “And bruised my knee, but I am otherwise unharmed.” He looks at the floor and grimaces. “I’m sorry about the pies, Dean.” His voice is soft, and Dean’s heart constricts for a moment at how forlorn he sounds.

“It’s fine, Cas.” He assures him. “As long as you’re okay.”

Cas slowly curls his fingers again. His wrist is beginning to swell.

“Here, lemme see.” Sam takes Cas’s hand in his, and Dean tries to stamp down on the flare of jealousy, hot and striking, that sparks in his gut for a split second. Sam cradles the back of Cas’s hand in his palm, and gently runs two fingers down Cas’s forearm.

“Tell me when it hurts,” Sam instructs.

Cas hisses as he presses against the juncture of Cas’s wrist, where a watch strap would sit, if he wore one.

“There?” Sam asks, and Cas nods.

“Yes.” He confirms. “Please don’t press on it again.”

“The good news is, I don’t think it’s broken.” Sam says, dropping Cas’s wrist. “But it’s definitely sprained. I think we have some ace bandages in the bathroom. I’ll go check.”

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas says. He sighs and looks at the mess of pie on the floor again. “I really am sorry, Dean. I don’t know what happened. One second I’m fine, the next I’ve lost my footing and I’m on the floor.”

“Cas, I told you, it’s fine.” Dean shakes his head and grasps Cas’s arm. “I’m just glad you didn’t hurt yourself more, buddy.”

He wishes he could stop calling Cas _buddy._

“Here,” he says to derail that train of thought. He pulls a chair out from the table, setting it in front of Cas. “You sit and wait for Sam; I’ll clean this up.”

Cas gives him a grateful look, and goes to sit in the chair, only to miss, and fall flat on his ass.

“Jesus, Cas!” Dean is at Cas’s side in a second. “What the hell has gotten into you, man?!”

“I...I don’t know.” Cas shakes his head, and lets Dean help him to his feet again. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

Dean helps him sit down in the chair, and he frowned, looking down at his best friend in concern. Warning bells were going off in his head like fucking tornado sirens; it wasn’t like Cas to be so clumsy. Something was very wrong here.

He steps back, his eyes never leaving Cas.

“Are you dizzy or somethin’?” He asks. “Did you have something to drink back at that farmers market and didn’t tell me? Some of that kombucha crap Sam likes?”

Cas’s brow furrows. “No, Dean.” He answers. “I feel fine, if thirsty, all of a sudden.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause it ain’t like you to trip over nothing and then fall on your ass, Cas!” Dean’s voice rises, and he crosses his arms.

“I am aware of that, Dean.” Cas glowers, and if he weren’t so worried, Dean would laugh at how closely it resembled Sam’s bitch face. He rubs at his injured wrist, and suddenly refuses to meet Dean’s eyes. Several seconds pass in silence between them before Cas looks up at him.

“Will you get me some water?” He asks sheepishly.

Dean feels a pang of regret for raising his voice. He pats Cas’s shoulder as he passes him to grab a cup from the shelf and fill it with water from the tap. He hands it to Cas, who mutters his thanks and chugs it down in three gulps.

“Damn, you were thirsty,” he remarks as Cas holds the glass back out to him.

“Could you get me some more?” Cas asks. His blue eyes have taken on a feverish look all of a sudden, and it sparks further worry down Dean’s spine like ice.

Something is seriously wrong here.

“Yeah, man, just a second.” Dean’s eyes the ex-angel for a few moments, still trying to grouse what the hell is going on here as he moves back to the sink for more water. Just as he hands it over to Cas, the glass slips from Cas’s hand.

“Shit!” Dean jumps back as the glass shatters against the floor tiles. “What the hell, Cas?!”

“I’m so sorry!” Cas’s eyes are wide in alarm, and he moves to get up out of the chair, but Dean quickly stops him.

“Whoa, whoa, don’t move!” He says sternly. Cas stops and slowly sinks back into the chair. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but don’t move until we figure out what it is, got it?!”

Cas nods, and Dean runs a hand down his face before pushing it back into his hair.

“Dean, something is wrong.” He says.

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean growls, worry and frustration building in his gut at a steady rate. “Sit tight and don’t move ‘til we figure out what it is, capisce?”

“I capisce.”

At that moment, Sam rounds the corner of the doorway and comes back in, stopping when he sees Dean leaning down to begin to gather some of the larger pieces of glass from the puddle on the floor.

“What happened?” Sam asks, carefully stepping around both the pie disaster and the shards of glass.

“I dropped a glass.” Cas tells him.

“ _After_ he fell flat on his ass trying to sit down.” Dean adds.

“Are you okay?!” Sam steps closer and sets the ace bandage on the counter.

“I’m fine.” Cas says. “But...Sam, I think something is wrong. This...is highly unusual behavior for me, despite my brief existence as a human.”

“Yeah, no, you’re right.” Sam regards Cas for a second, frowning. “Let’s get that wrist wrapped, then we can try to figure out what’s going on.”

“I’ll grab a broom.” Dean declares, dumping the pieces of glass in the trash can. He points at Cas. “Don’t move until I get back.”

Cas rolls his eyes, and Dean tries not to smile at how utterly _human_ the gesture is.

As he walks towards the closet where the broom is tucked away, Dean ponders what just transpired. Something about this whole thing is ringing wrong in Dean’s head, like a gnat in his ear, and it's driving him nuts. Cas was fine earlier! It was like as soon as they'd walked into the bunker, it was like he'd seen nothing but bad luck—

“Son of a bitch!” Dean curses, turns on his heel, and marches right back into the kitchen.

He knows _exactly_ what's going on here, and it's some seriously bad juju.

 

***

 

Castiel hisses as Sam gently wraps his swelling wrist in the ace bandage, making sure it's tight before he fastens the end.

“There, that should help.” He says kindly, smiling.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas mutters. “I just don't know what's gotten into me…”

“I do.”

Dean strides up to them, face set in an expression Castiel has learned means he's worried, not angry, despite the downward turn of his lips, and furrow to his brow. It does nothing to take away from his beauty.

“You've been hexed, Cas.”

Castiel blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You've been hexed. It all makes sense.” Dean presses on. He looks at Sam. “Remember the rabbit’s foot?”

Understanding dawns in Sam’s hazel eyes.  “Shit,” he breathes, and Castiel cocks his head.

“What does this have to do with a rabbit’s foot?” He asks.

“Coupla years ago, me an’ Sam found out a cursed object had been stolen from one of our dad’s lockups, a rabbit’s foot. It granted the person in possession of it unlimited good luck, but as soon as they got rid of it or lost it, the luck ran out, and they died, usually pretty bloody.” Dean says. He shudders slightly. “Anyway, it hexed Sam, and when he lost it, bad luck followed him everywhere. A damn AC unit caught on fire from him just _looking_ at it.”

“I also lost a shoe,” Sam mumbles under his breath.

Castiel shakes his head, still slightly confused. “I haven't been in contact with a rabbit.”

“It doesn't have to be specifically a rabbit’s foot, Cas.” Sam explains. “Any item can be hexed or cursed to be lucky. What did you buy at the farmer’s market today?”

Castiel points to his canvas bag on the counter. “Honey, my favorite soap, and homemade almond butter.”

Sam sifts through the canvas bag. He eyes the homemade almond butter with a critical eye.

“Who did you buy this from?”

“A teenager raising money for the animal shelter.” Castiel answers. “She couldn’t have been more than fourteen, Sam. She wasn’t a witch.”

“I doubt it was the honey, or the soap, either. They’re from the same vendors you always buy them from.”

“What about the flower?” Dean pipes in. “I mean, it even has a sign in it saying ‘I feel lucky.’”

Sam’s eyes widen momentarily. “Cas, where did you put the iris?” He asks.

“In the library.” Cas answers. He isn’t entirely sure where the location of the iris plays into all this, but he’ll bite. “Why?”

“I don’t know why, but I think I might have a theory.” Sam says. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Castiel sighs and looks at Dean as his brother exits the kitchen. Dean has a look on his face that Castiel can’t read; his eyes are soft as he frowns at Castiel, his shoulders tense. He’s chewing the inside of his cheek, seemingly lost in thought as he stares at Castiel’s shoes.

“Dean, are you alright?” Castiel dares. Dean starts and looks at him.

“Sorry, what?” He asks.

“Are you alright?” Castiel repeats. “You seem...concerned.”

“Well, yeah, I’m concerned.” Dean says. “You might be hexed - or worse, cursed - Cas. That’s definitely a reason to be concerned.”

“Dean, I assure you, I will be fine.” Castiel tries to smile at him. “I have been through much worse than this.”

Dean shakes his head. “That ain’t it, buddy.” He says, and Castiel tries not to deflate at the use of _buddy_ again. “If this is anything like the time Sam and I found that rabbit’s foot, things could go sideways fast. Didn’t that iris’ last owner die under mysterious circumstances?”

“She died in an accident when the shelf above her bed fell on her.” Castiel corrects, remembering the story the woman at the greenhouse had told them when they’d purchased the iris. Suddenly, this story was becoming more and more suspect. “She also said the iris came to the greenhouse with other plants. Could they be cursed as well?”

“I don’t know, man,” Dean answers, sighing tiredly. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “But whatever it is, we gotta figure it out quick so we can fix it.”

Castiel casts his eyes to the floor, shame flooding his system like adrenaline. “I’m sorry, Dean.” He says quietly.

“Hey, this ain’t your fault.” Dean assures him softly, stepping closer to Castiel’s chair. “You didn’t do this on purpose.”

Castiel shakes his head. “That hardly matters, Dean.” He says. “I still became hexed or cursed, and that’s...that’s unacceptable. I should have taken better care.”

“Cas, man, you _didn’t know_.” Dean presses. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. It’s happened to me an’ Sam lotsa times. It happens. It’s not something _you_ did.”

Castiel wishes he could feel the same way, but the issue still stands: he got himself jinxed, and he brought that burden onto his family and into their home. He swallows against the nausea that rises from deep within his stomach at the idea that they may not be able to find out what this is, or how to fix it. If that’s the case, if Castiel is destined to die, same as the people who lost the rabbits foot the Winchesters were talking about, he will not hesitate to distance himself from them. They’re his family, and he loves them (albeit in very different ways). He will not allow harm to befall them for his own misgivings.

“Hey, I know that look.” Dean interrupts his train of thought with a hand on his shoulder.  “Stop it. You ain’t gonna die. We’re gonna figure this shit out, and fix it, capisce?”

“I capisce.” Castiel answers, but his resolve holds.

Sam comes back into the kitchen, carefully wheeling the cart with the iris still sitting inside behind him.

“So I have a working theory, but we’re gonna have to test it out.” He proclaims. “Dean, find me something we can throw, like a tennis ball.”

“Do I look like a golden retriever to you, Moose?” Dean gripes. Sam glares at him.

“No, but I know we have a few in the laundry room for when we wash our winter coats.” He says. “Just...get me one, okay? Me and Cas will be outside.”

“Has it finished raining?” Castiel asks.

“I checked on my way back, and yeah, it’s stopped. It’s still cloudy, but I think the storms are past us.” Sam answers.

Castiel very carefully rises to his feet, gingerly stepping around the broken glass and pie guts still littering the kitchen floor, half holding his breath as he waits for the next mishap to befall him. He sighs in relief when nothing does.

He takes the handle of the cart and follows Sam down the hall, through the library, and back towards the garage, where they walk through the side door into the scrubby field outside the bunker. The usually dusty earth is still wet and muddy, but just as Sam had said, it is no longer raining, the thunder no longer audible as lightning flashes in the darkened distance.

After another minute or two, Dean appears, and tosses a tennis ball to Sam.

“Alright, let’s hear this theory of yours.” He says.

“Okay, so I have this idea that your general proximity to the iris may influence the luck associated with it,” Sam explains, slipping easily into what Dean has always called his “geek mode.” “Basically, I think that the closer you are to the iris itself, the luckier you are, but the farther you are away from it, the more the luck wears thin. Make sense?”

Castiel nods, slowly. “That would explain why we missed the hailstorm by mere seconds when I was still in the backseat with it, and why I started tripping when I left it in the library.”

“Exactly!” Sam grins. He holds up the tennis ball. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. We’re going to test the range of the luck by having you catch this ball. That way, we can better pinpoint when, exactly, your luck starts to go south.”

“Dibs on throwing!” Dean interjects, a huge grin across his face reminiscent of a gleeful child, and Castiel’s heart does that strange flutter-flip accompanied by the warm pulling sensation he can feel in the pit of his stomach it does whenever Dean smiles like that.

Sam rolls his eyes, but hands the ball over to his brother without comment.

“Alright, Cas, we know that having the iris right next to you is when you're at baseline.” Sam says. “So let's try a foot away, then three, then five, then ten. Sound good?”

Castiel nods, and takes the position Sam instructs of him. On Sam’s cue, Dean tosses him the tennis ball, which he catches without issue.

Sam instructs him to leave the iris where it is, and Castiel steps three feet away; he still catches the ball squarely in his hand before tossing it back to Dean effortlessly.

At five feet, however, he finds that though he is able to catch the ball, he fumbles with it, and nearly drops it. When he tosses it back to Dean, he falls short and the ball falls at Dean’s feet in a low arch.

“Okay, I think we’re starting to get a picture here.” Sam muses, nodding. “Let's do eight feet, Cas.”

Cas moves as instructed. When Dean tosses him the ball, he misses catching it completely, and has to run after it as it rolls away from him. When he throws it back to Dean, he throws it too hard, and then it's _Dean’s_ turn to chase after it.

“Okay, now ten feet, Cas.” Sam calls to him, and Castiel takes a step two feet further back.

When Dean throws the ball this time, it hits Castiel square in the forehead. He cries out in surprise, and rubs at the sore spot on his skin as he stoops to pick up the ball on the ground. When he goes to straighten up, he loses his footing in the mud, and falls, for the second time in the last hour, on his ass into the squelching earth.

He feels his cheeks and ears burn in embarrassment as the Winchesters burst out laughing. He points a glare at Dean when he jogs over and offers Castiel his hand.

“I'm sorry, Cas,” he says. “It's just...your luck _sucks,_ buddy.”

(There's that damned _buddy_ again.)

Castiel huffs, but allows Dean to help haul him to his feet. Mud covers his jeans and t-shirt, and he wrinkles his nose at the sucking sensation it causes when he moves. Sam comes over to the two of them, wheeling the iris behind him, and Castiel feels a flare of relief at its close proximity.

“You okay, though?” Dean’s green eyes are soft with worry. Castiel nods.

“I'm fine, Dean.” He promises. “Just...uncomfortable.”

“I think that pretty much covers it.” Sam says. “I think five feet is about as safe as we should consider letting you get away from the iris until we figure this whole thing out.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Cas agrees.

“Did you fall on your wrist again, Cas?” Sam asks, and Castiel notices that he’s rubbing his sprained wrist absentmindedly. He shakes his head.

“No, it just hurts.” He says. “I’ll be fine.”

“Let’s get inside, then.” Dean stoops and picks up the muddy tennis ball and tosses it into the shopping cart next to the iris’s pot. He looks up at the sky, the wind tousling his hair, and Castiel swallows against the ever present lump in his throat at his best friend’s unattainable beauty. “I think it’s gonna rain again.”

“Good idea.” Sam agrees. “We can start researching ways to break a luck curse.”

The three of them begin their trek back towards the bunker door, locking it tight behind them as they reenter the garage. Castiel is careful as he wheels the iris behind him towards the library.

“I’m going to take a shower.” He declares. He wrinkles his nose at the way the mud has begun to dry and flake off of his skin. His hair is matted where the mud had splashed into it, and he growls in frustration at the gritty feeling of dirt and sand against his scalp.

“We’ll be here, if you need us.” Sam informs him, and is already sitting down at the table, opening his laptop. He smiles encouragingly at Castiel. “We’ve handled luck curses before, Cas. We’ll figure this out.”

“Thank you for your help in this...unfortunate matter, Sam.” Castiel says, gratitude welling in his chest for his friends and their commitment to helping him get rid of this predicament.

“You’re family, Cas.” Dean says softly, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s what family does.”

 

***

 

Dean is just putting the broom back in the utility closet down the hall from the kitchen, having finally cleaned up the last of the broken glass and pie from the floor, when he hears someone clear their throat behind him. He closes the door and turns to find Cas, the iris still in its cart at his side. Cas looks embarrassed, still caked in mud. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes.

“Hello, Dean,” he greets, voice soft.

“Hey, Cas.” Dean returns. “You okay? I thought you were going to shower.”

“I was.” Cas says. “But...I’m having a hard time with the wrist I sprained.” He looks up, and Dean can read the shame in those big blue eyes that he knows all too well from his own glances in the mirror. It’s hard for Cas to ask for help.

“What’s up?” Dean swallows, stepping closer to the former angel.

“I...I need to wash my hair, but I fear that if I remove the ace bandage, the pain will be overwhelming.” Cas admits. Dean tries not to roll his eyes, and practices an understanding smile onto his face; ever since he’d given up his Grace for good, and had become fully human, Cas was still struggling to develop the pain tolerance that Dean and Sam had cultivated their entire lives. Dean vividly remembers the papercut Cas had nursed a few weeks into his humanity; he’d griped about it the entire time, unable to understand how something so small and ultimately inconsequential could _hurt_ so much.

“Do you need help?” Dean asks.

Cas lowers his gaze and nods.

“If you’re amenable?” He asks timidly.

 _I’m amenable,_ Dean’s brain thinks. _There are definitely other parts of me that are amenable, too._

Dean curses his inner monologue and smiles at his best friend.

“Sure, buddy.” He says. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Cas follows him down the hall towards the shower room, the wheels of the shopping cart squeaking quietly as they do so. Dean shuts the door behind them, not wanting Sam to walk by and get the wrong idea - _Or maybe he’d have the right idea_ , his damned brain whispers, and Dean tells it to shut up - and offering them a modicum of privacy.

“Here,” Dean takes the handle of the shopping cart and carefully wheels the iris against the wall next to the sinks. He grabs the chair the three of them use when they need their hair cut and drags it over, setting it against one of the sinks. He grabs two towels from the shelf, and rolls one up to put on the edge of the sink. He runs warm water into the bowl, testing it with his fingers before he turns back to Cas.

“Grab your shit.” He instructs, and Cas nods wordlessly and retrieves the lavender mint shampoo he uses from the shower stall he uses most frequently. He hands it to Dean.

“Alright, let’s get that shirt off first.” Dean says, and steps forward. “Raise your arms.”

Cas obeys, raising his arms above his head. Dean takes a deep breath and tries not to let his hands shake as he takes hold of the hem of Cas’s Metallica t-shirt and pull it over his head, keeping his touch as clinical as possible. He’s touched Cas plenty of times; it shouldn’t be nearly as hard as it is.

It’s just that ever since Cas became human, for real this time, it’s been harder and harder for Dean to keep his hands to himself, and to keep his mind from wandering. But he can’t help the way his palms sometimes sweat when they sit too close in a diner booth while on hunt, or the way he can’t stop looking at Cas’s hands when he cleans his weapons, or how the way he smells when he’s sweaty and gross after his morning runs with Sam is distracting and makes Dean think about all the ways _he_ could get Cas sweaty. It certainly doesn’t help that he’s a good looking son of a bitch, with his stupid big blue eyes and dark hair and a permanent kicked puppy look. It’s not fair that Dean has to tell his brain and his dick to behave as much as he does.

He tosses the shirt onto the floor, and gestures to the chair.

“Alright, schlemiel,” he joked. “Sit and lay your head back.”

Cas does as instructed, settling his neck on the towel. Dean uses his hand to cup water and spoon it onto Castiel’s cranium, using the other to shield his eyes. Once he's gotten most of the dirt out, watching it swirl down the drain and leave a thin layer around the bowl of the sink, he pours a generous amount of shampoo into his palm and gently lathers it into Cas’s thick hair, massaging the suds into his scalp, tugging lightly at the bubbly strands.

Cas closes his eyes and moans in appreciation, and the sound goes straight to Dean’s dick.

“Like that, huh?” He asks, swallowing against the thickness of his voice.

Cas lets out a brief ‘mm-hmm,’ never opening his eyes. Dean feels him relax, his body completely pliant beneath his soapy hands, and he realizes he'd never quite noticed how tightly wound Cas was.

“Yeah, well, I guess now we know why Sam spends so much time in the shower.” Dean quips. “Gotta keep that hair lucious, after all.”

Cas doesn't say anything, but he smiles, and Dean wishes he could make him smile like that all the time.

 _You could,_ that little voice in his head is back, and Dean is certain it's suicidal from the way it keeps popping up where it's not wanted. _He already makes you so happy. Is it really so far fetched that maybe you could make him happy, too?_

 _Yes!_ Dean counters back. _I break everything I touch!_

 _Well, that can't be true. You're touching him now, and he's certainly not broken._ It argues back.

“Alright, let's wash out.” Dean says after a few more moments. He's already half-hard from the way Cas keeps moaning; if they keep this up any longer, Dean’s gonna have a predicament in his pants to take care of, and he'd rather avoid that, thank you _very_ much.

Cas let's out a disappointed sound, but still doesn't say anything as Dean rinses his hair. He grabs the other towel from where he'd flung it over his shoulder and throws it over Cas’s head.

“There!” He says brightly, pulling the towel away abruptly, leaving Cas with an epic case of bedhead that rivaled the way his hair had looked all those years ago, when he'd still been wearing Jimmy and his ill-fitting suits. “That should help.”

Cas’s blue eyes are bright as he smiles at Dean again.

“Thank you, Dean,” he says, and Dean can hardly stand the sheer gratitude in his voice. Cas is always so genuinely _grateful_ for every goddamn thing, like he's still coming to terms with the fact that he's deserving of basic human decency.

“Anytime.” Dean smiles back. “It might take a couple days for that wrist to start to feel better. Seriously, if you need help with anything, anything at all - washing your hair, shaving—"

 _Orgasms_ , his brain brightly supplies; Dean tells it to shut up and fuck off.

"—anything, just tell me, and I'll help you. Capiche?"

Cas nods. "I capiche."

Dean clears his throat, trying - and failing - to keep his eyes above Cas’s shoulders. “Think you can handle the rest?” He asks.

“I believe so, yes.” Cas answers. He looks down at his naked torso and muddy jeans. “I did not grab a change of clothes, however.”

“I'll grab them.” Anything to get him out of here before he can't keep his damn hands to himself. He turns on his heel quickly and takes his leave, not bothering to think about how his abrupt leave would appear. Anything is better than staying one more second in front of his half naked best friend, whom he is having fantasies of pressing up against the bathroom wall—

Ooooookay, that's enough.

Dean shudders, and quietly slips into Cas’s bedroom to retrieve a pair of sweatpants, boxers, and a Looney Tunes t-shirt Claire had found for him at a thrift store in Chattanooga and had sent to him with a card that said, “To Doof, Love Claire.” Cas still has the card propped up on his desk next to the lamp, next to the growing stack of postcards Claire and Alex sent him from their travels.

“Hey, Cas, you decent?” Dean calls into the bathroom as he shoulders the door open.

“Yes, Dean.” Cas answers.

In the short time it had taken Dean to get his clothes, Cas had managed to plug a sink and clean off the rest of the mud caking his body. He's wrapped in a towel, slung low on his hips, exposing his hipbones. Dean’s brain short circuits for ten straight seconds as he rapid fires through all the very _in_ decent things he wants to do to that body. Preferably with his tongue.

“Dean, are you alright?” Cas asks.

Dean realizes he'd been staring, and shakes himself out of it. He holds out the change of clothes, awkwardly.

“Here.” He says, ignoring the way his voice cracks like a prepubescent teenager.

“Thank you.” Cas accepts the clothes, and Dean has to look away from watching a drop of water from Cas’s still wet hair make its trek down Cas’s neck and into the dip of his collarbone.

“Yeah. Sure. No problem. Um.” He stutters. “Just...can you put some pants on, man?”

Cas cocks his head to the side slightly, in that adorable way of his, but does as Dean requests. Dean turns away to give the guy some privacy.

“You good?” His voice is thick, and he hopes Cas won't hear it.

“Yes, Dean.” Cas answers, and Dean turns back. Cas has already pulled the boxers and sweatpants on, leaving the sweatpants just where he'd kept the towel, low low _low_ on the hipbones Dean longs to sink to his knees and mouth at. Dean schools his gaze to Cas’s face.

“Need help with the shirt?” He asks.

“If you wouldn't mind.”

He smiles as he takes the shirt from Cas, and gently eases over Cas’s head and torso, avoiding his sprained wrist. A part of him cries out at the injustice of having to cover up all that perfect skin, but the other rational part that isn't directly linked to his downstairs brain is relieved; Cas is always distracting to Dean on some level, but he's less so now fully clothed than he was just a few seconds ago.

“Dean?”

Dean looks down and realizes that his hands have stilled on Cas’s sides, and that there are a scant few inches between their bodies right at this moment. Dean swallows thickly, but can't seem to tear himself away. Cas is warm under the soft cotton of the t-shirt, that warmth radiating into Dean’s palms and searing into his very core.

He can't bring himself to let go. He's closer than he's ever been, and he just can't let go. Not now. He’ll never find the courage to do this again if he does.

“Yeah?” He asks.

Maybe he's imagining things, or maybe it's just him projecting, but he's pretty sure he can feel Cas’s heartbeat speed up as he slowly drags his hands up the other man’s abdomen until one hand is cupping the nape of Cas’s neck and the other is pressing at the small of his back.

“Are...are you okay?” Cas asks, and Dean watches as his wide blue eyes dilate as their gazes meet. “You’re...um.” He trails off, and Dean watches his adam’s apple bob.

“Cas,” he whispers. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and leans their foreheads together. “Tell me you don't want this and I’ll stop.”

He can feel Cas’s breath against his face. It's intoxicating.

“Do you want this, Cas?” He whispers.

“Dean.” Cas says breathlessly, and that all it takes. Dean hesitates only a second before he closes the inches between them and kisses him.

Cas is soft beneath his lips and hands as he deepens the kiss, and he returns it immediately, moaning appreciatively in the back of his throat in a way that makes Dean’s downstairs brain very happy. He slides his hand into Cas’s wet hair before he brings it down to cup his face, thumbing at his cheekbone. He swipes his tongue against Cas’s lips, and the former angel grants his entry, and Dean’s hand on his back tightens as he feels the other man melt into it. Dean feels like he's flying.

Cas tastes like autumn petrichor, honey, and spearmint toothpaste. Dean steps closer and crowds him up against the sink, wanting to feel every inch of that perfect skin pressed against his.

He's just slipping his fingers under Cas’s shirt when he feels Cas gasp, and freeze. He pauses and pulls back, looking at Cas’s stricken face.

“Cas?” He asks. “What's wrong?”

Cas’s blue eyes are no longer half-lidded with lust; they're blown wide open, horror and dismay beginning to dawn in them. Dean can see it clear as day.

“I–” Cas starts. He shakes his head and places his hands on Dean’s chest, pushing him away. “This isn't real.”

There's anguish in his voice, and Dean can't stand it.

“This is real,” Dean assures him, reaching out to take Cas’s face in his hands. Cas is looking right through him. “Cas, look at me.”

Cas turns his watery blue eyes back, and Dean leans closer. There's heartache and so much pain in those eyes, and Dean feels an ache so profound, he can feel it from his toes to the heels of his hands.

“This is real.” He repeats.

Cas shakes his head and closes his eyes. He pushes Dean away and stumbles back, hand groping for the edge of the sink, but instead he grabs onto the handle of the cart with the iris.

“Dean,” he says, voice thick and wobbling. “I just got hit with a _luck curse_. And suddenly, out of nowhere, you're kissing me, telling me you want me? I'm suddenly…” He swallows, and looks away, shaking his head. His jaw ticks and he bites his lip. His voice is soft and broken when he says, “I'm hexed with a luck curse and I'm suddenly getting everything I've ever wanted? And you expect me to believe this is real?”

Dean feels his heart _break_. He aches to grab Cas, throw his arms around him and never let go. But he understands Cas’s reservations; it was obvious that Cas wanted him, as much as (if not more than)  Dean wanted him, and now that he was getting it after being cursed with a luck curse...where your luck turns in your favor…of course he would question Dean’s intentions, especially when Dean, in all his repressed, I'm-allergic-to-feelings glory, had never acted on them before this moment.

Dean suddenly feels like a Class-A asshole.

“Cas,” he says, slowly moving towards him, hands out so as to not make Cas feel boxed in. “I've always wanted you. This isn't some freaky flower juju; this is real. I swear on Baby, this is real. We’re gonna find a cure for this, and I'm _still_ gonna want you.” He reaches out and gently takes Cas’s chin, turning his face towards his. He cups his stubby cheek and leans in, giving Cas every chance to pull away. When he doesn't, he brushes their lips together. He can feel Cas’s jaw trembling.

“Cas, I am so sorry.” He noses gently at Cas’s face, and Cas lets out a shuddering sigh. “My timing is shit. I didn't...I didn't even think about how this might look. I'm sorry.” He swallows. “But I promise you...this is real. I've wanted this - wanted _you_ \- for so long, I can't remember what not wanting you feels like.”

“How long?” Cas whispers.

“Years.”

Cas nods, slowly. “I could feel it.” He says. “When I was still an angel, I could feel your longing.” He finally looks at Dean, and more tears escape. “But everything you did was a contradiction to that longing. You called me _buddy,_ your brother, flirted and slept with every girl that would have you. And you were always so...distant, so clinical with me. I thought...I thought your longing for me made you unhappy, that you didn’t want to want me, and that meant that I made you unhappy, and after everything I'd done…” He shakes his head. “How could I possibly blame you?”

Dean is stunned.

“Cas, you _know_ what I did in hell. What I did with the Mark, to all those people, to _you,_ Cas. You know _all of that_ , and you still find something worth wanting in me.” Dean presses a kiss to Cas’s forehead; Cas lets him. “That...detachedness had nothing to do with you, or how I wanted you, Cas. It had everything to do with me, and how I'm...I'm poison. I infect and hurt and break everything and everyone I touch. I mean, fuck, Cas, you gave your _Grace_ to cure me of the Mark, man. How could I ever be worth that?”

Cas’s face is determined when he raises his chin and faces Dean square on.

“You’re worth more than you have ever given yourself credit for, Dean Winchester.” He says. “The cure called for a sacrifice freely given, and I did not question my choice then, nor do I question it now.” Cas’s hand leaves the handle of the cart, and it reaches up to lay over Dean’s hand on his cheek. Cas leans into the touch. “As for being _poison…_ ” He turns and presses a kiss to Dean’s palm, a tenderness Dean has never known, and looks Dean directly in the eye. “You are not now, nor will you ever be, anything but everything to me.”

Dean surges forward, and Cas meets him halfway, their mouths crashing together. Their teeth knock, but they don’t care; Dean has never had a better kiss in his life. Cas kisses him like he’s the very air he needs to breath, unlike the first time, which had been soft and sweet, this is fire and passion, and Dean pours every ounce of everything he’s ever felt for this extraordinary man into it.

Eventually they pull away, breathing in each other’s air between them. They stand forehead to forehead for a few more moments before Dean steps back.

“We should get back to the library, and help Sam try to find a cure.” He says, though he’s loathe to end this moment. “The sooner we do that, the sooner we can get rid of that thing.” He nods to the iris, which has been standing in its little cart like a perv, watching them make out for the last ten minutes.

Cas nods. “Yes, you’re right.” He says. He looks at Dean with a hopeful face. “Does...does this mean that we’re…?”

The question goes unspoken, but Dean hears it loud enough all the same.

He grins.

“Fuck yeah.” He says. “We’ll figure it out as we go, yeah?”

Cas’s smile tells him everything he needs to know.

 

***

 

“So get this,” Sam says as soon as they reenter the library. “I think I may have figured out a lead.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, sitting down at the table across from his brother. “Are you going to share with the class, Samantha?”

Sam rolls his eyes, but clicks away at his laptop.

“So you said that the lady that had the iris before you bought it today died, right?” Both Dean and Cas nod, and Sam continues. “Well, I did a search for local obituaries up in Hastings, and I found one I think might fit the bill.” He turns the laptop towards them, and Dean feels Cas’s breath on his neck as the former angel leans over his shoulder to peer at the screen; his spine tingles and he forces himself not to grin like an idiot.

“Marjorie Porter, age 84, was found dead in her home a week ago from what appeared to be an accident when the shelf above her bed collapsed and fell on her as she slept. A large geode bookend hit her in the head, and she apparently died instantly.” Sam explains.

“But what does this have to do with the iris?” Cas asks, tilting his head and squinting at the little picture of Marjorie next to her obit. Marjorie had been a tiny African American woman, with a crinkly smile that makes Dean think of every grandmother he's ever met, his own notwithstanding.

“I did a little digging,” Sam explains. “Turns out Marjorie was a master gardener, and entered a flower contest right before she died.”

“How soon before?” Dean asks.

Sam’s hazel eyes are stark. “A day. She won.” He says. He turns the laptop back towards him, and clicks at a few things before turning it back. On the screen is a newspaper clipping, showing a shining Marjorie grinning from ear to ear next to a very familiar iris. “Does that iris look familiar?”

“Fuck.” Dean curses. He runs his hand over his face for a moment before he looks back at the article. He drags Sam’s laptop a little closer, reading the blurb underneath the “AWARD WINNING IRIS WOWS JUDGES!”

“Wait a second,” Dean says after a few lines. He taps the screen. “It says here she'd been in the contest before, but this was the first year she'd won.”

“Yep.” Sam nods.

“And then suddenly she just up and dies in some freak accident the day after she wins, and then Cas here buys the iris and gets cursed? Sounds pretty screwy, you ask me.”

“Exactly!” Sam says. “It's all a little too much of a coincidence. So what I'm guessing is, Marjorie may have royally pissed off somebody at that contest, and if I had to guess, that someone had ties to some powerful witchcraft.”

“Is there any way to find out who else was in the contest? Anyone Marjorie would have made an enemy of?” Cas asks. Sam shrugs.

“Could be. I'll keep digging.” He promises.

“Great.” Dean claps his hands together. “In the meantime, I'll make us some dinner. Since Cas is the unlucky one today, he gets to pick.” He turns his gaze to Cas, who looks back at him impassively, though Dean can see the makings of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips (lips Dean can't wait to get against his again very, very soon).

“Spaghetti?” Cas says after a moment’s consideration. “With the homemade meatballs you make?”

Dean grins. “You got it.” He looks at Sam. “Good with you?”

“Cas’s choice, like you said.” Sam says without looking up from his laptop. “And you know I never say no to your spaghetti and meatballs, Dean.”

“Awesome.” Dean reaches out and grabs Cas’s bicep. “Well, if you're good out here, I'm just gonna borrow Cas to help me make dinner. Kay?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Sam waves his hand, still not looking up.

Dean all but drags Cas down the hall towards the kitchen, where he wastes no time whirling the ex angel around and pressing him against the wall in a bruising kiss. Cas returns it in kind, moaning appreciatively.

“Is this what you define as helping?” Cas raises an eyebrow when they pull apart.

“Definitely.” Dean punctuates this by kissing him again before letting him go.

“Dean…” Cas suddenly looks shy. “Are...we going to tell Sam?”

“What, about us?” Dean asks.

Cas nods.

“I know that we have not yet discussed the nature of our relationship or where they events that have just transpired will lead us…” Cas says. “And I know that you find intimacy to be publicly uncomfortable, and I am also aware that I am the owner of a male body, and that you prefer females, so I can understand if you'd like to keep this between us.”

“Whoa, hey.” Dean sets the package of ground beef he'd pulled from the freezer on the counter and strides to Cas’s side. Cas’s knuckles are white where they're gripped around the handle of the iris’ cart. He hesitates only a second before he reaches out and loosens Cas’s fingers. “Cas, look at me.”

Cas raises his eyes, and Dean smiles gently.

“I want to tell Sam.” He says. “I'm pretty sure he's suspected that there's something going on between us for a while now. I've never... _officially_ told him I'm into guys, but...he's smart. And he's gonna be thrilled, and gloat, and tell us he's happy for us. It'll be a total chick flick moment.”

Cas nods. “Which I know you hate.”

“But I don't hate what we've started here, Cas. I don't hate the idea of an _us._ We've been this unstoppable unit for so long, and what went down, today, between us? I feel like everything that's happened before has been leading us to this moment.” Dean lets out a deep breath. “So yes, we’re gonna tell Sam. Just maybe we should wait until this flower thing has boiled over, yeah?”

Cas nods, slowly. “I understand.” He smiles, and Dean can't help but smile back. He loves the way Cas smiles with his whole face, the way his eyes light up and his nose crinkles. It's adorable.

It feels good to be able to admit that, even if it's just to himself.

“I wasn't kidding about you helping, though.” Dean says. He grabs the loaf of bread from the cabinet and the stick of butter, laying them in front of Cas. He rummages around in the utensil drawer and pulls out the dullest butter knife he can find and hands it to Cas. “There's no way in hell I’m letting you handle anything sharp until that thing–” He points to the iris at Cas’s side. “–is taken care of. So you, Castiel, former angel of the lord, are on toast duty.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “How far I've fallen,” he says coyly, and Dean laughs.

“Stop sassing me,” he leans in and kisses Cas’s nose. “And get to work.”

 

***

 

In the end, they manage to make dinner without any major fiascos. Dean had shown Cas how to make, prepare, and cook his signature meatballs once he'd finished buttering bread for garlic toast. Sam had wandered in halfway through, enticed by the smell of hamburger meat cooking in a skillet, and Dean had put him on noodle duty.

“Soup’s on!” Dean proudly proclaims as he sets the large bowl of spaghetti on the table. Cas follows close behind with the smaller bowl of garlic toast, and Sam hands each of them a knife and fork.

“This looks great, guys.” He grins.

“Team effort.” Dean winks at Cas, and sits down at the table. “Dig in!”

“So I may have found us a lead.” Sam says as he scoops some of the spaghetti onto his own plate before passing it to Cas. “I looked up the contest Marjorie entered. I didn't find a complete list of contestants, but I _did_ find something interesting that might help us narrow down our search.”

“Okay, whatcha got?” Dean asks. He grabs two pieces of toast from the bowl.

“Well, the article we read from the newspaper said that Marjorie was a first time winner, right? Well, turns out, she beat out a woman by the name of Natalia Jennings, who grew and showed roses, and who’d been the running winner of the contest for nine years straight.”

“Until Marjorie won.” Cas interjects.

“Exactly. So if anyone at that contest was going to want to exact revenge on a little old lady, my money’s on it being Natalia Jennings.”

Sam clicks at his phone for a second before he shows them the photo of a woman. Natalia Jennings is petite and curvy, with long, wavy chestnut brown hair and way too much makeup. Her smile is somewhat predatory, just this side of too sharp. She looks like she could be one of those tressed up bitches from one of those _Real Housewives_ shows.

“Do we have an address?” Dean asks through a mouthful of spaghetti. He sees Cas give him an exasperated look out of the corner of his eye.

“Not yet,” Sam admits. “Still working on it. I was thinking about calling in a favor from Crowley, see if he could get Rowena in on it and see if she could find anything out about her. If she’s the witch we’re looking for, they’d know.”

“I doubt Crowley would be of any assistance,” Cas says. “He would likely view this as a waste of his time, anyway. Especially if you asked to involve his mother.”

“Yeah, Cas is right, don't bother with Crowley.” Dean agrees. “He’ll just bitch and moan about it for weeks. Make our lives a living hell. No thanks.”

“Too bad Charlie is at her LARPing thing this weekend.” Sam says morosely. “She definitely could have helped.”

“Well, either way, looks like we’re headed back into Hastings tomorrow.” Dean wipes his mouth on a napkin and takes a long drink of beer.

“Uh, you and Cas are headed back to Hastings tomorrow.” Sam corrects. “I’m staying right here.”

“What, why?” Dean frowns. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Last time I was involved with a luck curse, I lost a shoe, and nearly _died_. I’m gonna stay right here - barefoot, I might add - and I’ll man the books in case something comes up.”

“Sam—” Dean starts.

“Dean, Sam is right.” Cas interjects. “We might benefit from having someone stay behind in case things go south. Sam can keep researching for a possible alternative cure while we head into Hastings to try and find the witch.”

Dean looks at the former angel, into those earnest blue eyes, and he can’t bring himself to argue.

Goddammit. He’s fucking whipped, is what he is.

“Fine.” He says, and takes another drink of beer. “You stay here, and me n’ Cas will...take care of things.”

“Sounds good.” Sam nods and takes another bite of spaghetti. “Use a condom.”  

Dean nearly chokes on his beer, and is about three seconds away from having it come out his nose. He sputters and coughs, setting his beer down on the table before he can drop it. Cas bangs on his back a few times, trying to help him, and Dean gasps for air like a man drowning. He looks at his brother with wide eyes, not daring a glance at Cas.

“What?!” He finally croaks.

Sam smirks, his hazel eyes full of mirth as he looks between them. Cas still has his hand on Dean’s back.

“What, you think I wouldn’t figure it out when you two finally got your heads out of your asses?” He asks, somewhat nonchalantly. “It’s obvious, guys. It’s been obvious for _years._ Do you know how much eye sex I had to sit through between the two of you? Too much, guys, way too much.” He suddenly looks shamefaced. “And I...may have accidentally seen the two of you making out in the bathroom.”

Dean runs a hand over his face, trying to hide the way his ears and cheeks are burning in embarrassment. He looks at the smug face of his brother and leans back in his chair.

“Spying, Sammy?” He says.

“I had to go to the bathroom!” Sam says, holding his hand up defensively. “And no offense, but you aren’t exactly _quiet._ I’m just glad I invested in some noise cancelling headphones a while back.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own tongue this time, and he buries his face in his hands.

“Your brother and I have not yet engaged in sexual congress,” Cas says, and Dean wishes he could melt into the ground right then and there. “But I believe I speak for us both when I say that I appreciate your support, Sam.”

“Shut up, Cas,” Dean moans. “Please.”

“Dean, he is merely stating that he―”

“I know what he’s stating, Cas.” Dean interrupts sharply. “Thank you.”

“Look,” Sam sighs. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m just saying...it’s about freaking time.” He sets down his fork and steeples his fingers. “Just...please. I’m begging you. Keep it in the bedroom, okay?”

Dean groans, and lets his forehead knock against the table. He feels Cas rub his back soothingly.

“Thank you, Sam.” Cas says, finally. “We will...do our best.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Sam says. He smiles. “I’m happy for you both. Be good to each other.”

Dean licks his lips and finally raises his head. Sam’s face is sincere, his smile soft. He really is happy for them, and even though this isn’t exactly how he’d pictured this going, he can’t deny that he feels relieved, like an added weight has been taken from his shoulders.

“Thanks, Sammy.” He says thickly. “That...that means a lot.”

Sam nods once, and goes back to eating his dinner. Dean looks at Cas, who licks his lips and glances back at him. He offers him a thin smile.  

Dean sighs and gets up.

He needs another beer.

Or three.

 

***

 

“Alright, I don’t know about you guys,” Dean says after they’ve cleaned up dinner. “But since you two dragged my smiling face outta bed at ass-o’clock, I’m beat.” He looks at Cas. “You comin’ or what?”

“Of course.” Cas says without hesitation. He stands, and grabs the handle of the cart. He nods to Sam, who raises his beer in acknowledgment. “Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night guys.” Sam says. He yells, “Use protection!”

“Blow me, Sam!” Dean calls back to his brother as he heads down the hall.

“No, I’ll let Cas take care of that!” Sam retorts.

“I’m gonna kill him.” Dean mutters. “I swear, I’m gonna ice that little shit if he keeps it up.”

He throws open his bedroom door and stalks inside, beelining for the dresser to grab a pair of sweatpants. He yanks off his shirt, and turns to find Cas standing awkwardly in the doorway, the hand not holding the cart clenching and unclenching at his side. He looks shy, chewing on his bottom lip.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“I, uh…” Cas looks down at the iris, still radiant and stunning, despite its darker properties. “I’m just going to go back to my own room.” He turns to go. “Goodnight, Dean.”

“Cas, wait.” Dean calls. Cas stops and glances back at him; Dean swallows. “Stay.”

Cas cocks his head at him, eyes shining with unhidden hope. Dean throws his shirt and sweatpants on the bed and walks over to Cas, placing his hands on his hips. He leans forward and kisses him, nice and slow. He pulls back.

“Stay.” He repeats.

“Okay.”

Dean drags Cas back towards him by his hips, pressing him up against the doorframe; one of Cas’s hands finds its way into Dean’s hair and tugs gently, and Dean moans appreciatively; he’d forgotten how _good_ that felt.

They pull back and pant against each others’ mouths, and Dean thumbs at Cas’s hipbone, idly thinking about how he plans to suck bruises against that perfect skin very, very soon. Cas hums, looking at Dean through hooded eyes.

“What, persay, does staying imply?” He asks, smiling as he cards his fingers through Dean’s hair.

“Anything. Everything.” Dean answers honestly. He closes his eyes, unable to handle the clear affection he sees reflecting in Cas’s. “Nothing you don't want, Cas.”

“And if I want everything?” Cas’s voice is doing some seriously _naughty_ things to his imagination right now.

“Then everything’s what you get.”

Cas is the one who leans in and kisses him this time, soft and sure, and Dean’s chest aches with it.

“Show me, Dean.” He says. “I want everything.”

That's all Dean needs to hear. He grabs Cas by his t-shirt and hauls him into the room. Cas squeaks in surprise, and the cart with the iris nearly tips over as he pulls it behind him. Dean takes the cart from him and places the iris in the corner of the room, where it remains at a safe distance for Cas to move about the room. The last thing he wants are stubbed toes and smacked foreheads while they do this.

The idea of hurting Cas gives Dean pause. It's been a long ass time since he's been with a man, and he's not sure Cas has ever had sex at all, save that one time with the reaper the first time he became human. For all intents and purposes, Cas is still new to all of this, and the trust Dean sees in those eyes when he gently pushes the former angel down onto the bed are enough to make him weak in the knees.

“You gotta tell me,” he says hoarsely. “If you wanna stop, or anything hurts, ‘kay?”

Cas hums.

“I'm serious, Cas.” Dean wishes he could put everything he's feeling in this moment into words, the downright _urgency_ he feels to know that Cas will stop him should he have even so much as a second thought.

“Dean,” Cas says, and the reverence in his voice is clear, resonating into Dean’s very bones. “You won't hurt me.”

“Yeah but if I do–”

“You _won't,”_ Cas insists. He takes one of Dean’s hands and kisses his palm. “I am not made of glass, you know. I will not break.”

Dean holds Cas’s face between his hands, feeling the slight tremble there as he does. Cas’s gaze is unwavering, and he smiles encouragingly at Dean.

He can still remember the crunch of Cas's cheekbones beneath his hands when the Mark had had him, after he'd killed the Stynes’ for going after Charlie and nearly killing her, leaving her broken and bloody in the bathtub of a motel, but alive; how he'd hovered over him with the angel blade; how, through the blood pounding in his ears he could hear himself screaming to stop, a constant _no no no, please, not him, not him, not him_. His hands shake as he rubs his thumbs along those same cheekbones, whole now but still fragile, in a way they weren't before. He wants so badly to make this good, make good on the trust Cas has always placed before him. He wants to be worthy of it.

He drops one of his hands to the hem of Cas’s t-shirt. He fumbles with it for a moment, unable to get a solid grip from the way his hand shakes.

“Dean,” Cas’s hand stops his. “Are you okay?”

“I'm scared shitless, man.” Dean admits, dropping his head against the juncture of Cas’s neck and shoulder. “I don't wanna fuck this up.”

“I trust you.” Cas says gently, once again carding his hand through Dean’s hair. “As I have, and as I always will.”

Dean vows, right then in there, that he will do everything in his power to never betray that trust, to protect it like the precious thing it is.

“Okay.” Dean swallows. “Okay, Cas.”

He moves to straddle Cas’s lap on the bed, his hand slipping underneath his shirt to splay against Cas’s abdomen. He seals their mouths together, slowly exploring Cas and the sounds he makes. After a few minutes, he moves from Cas’s mouth to nose at his neck, seeking permission.

There's a scar, about an inch long, just beneath Cas's jugular, where he'd cut his Grace from his body during the ritual that cured Dean of the Mark. The skin is silky smooth, with a silver sheen whenever the sunlight catches it just right. Dean rubs his thumb against it, trying not to think about the sacrifice it symbolizes, how it embodies the humanity that Cas welcomed with open arms, all for Dean’s sake. Cas swallows, Adam’s Apple bobbing, and after a second he bares his neck, and the sheer amount of trust in such a simple gesture leaves Dean _breathless_. He makes a particularly gorgeous sound when Dean sucks at his pulse point just under his chin, and he catalogues that away for later, and continues his trek down.

He pulls aside the collar of his shirt to mouth at his collarbones, which elicits another breathy moan, and Cas’s hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck.

“Like that, sweetheart?” The endearment falls from his tongue, and Dean can't bring himself to care. This is Cas; there is nothing to be embarrassed about.

“Yes.” Cas responds, voice soft.

Dean nips at the skin, flattening his tongue and dragging it along the entire length of Cas’s solar plexus. The former angel groans and the fingers in Dean’s hair tighten.

He wants to go further, but that damn shirt is in the way, Bugs Bunny leering up at him like some weird cartoon voyeur. He stops and kisses Cas underneath his ear.

“Can I…?” He whispers and moves the hem of his shirt higher, and Cas nods.

As soon as Cas has been divested of his shirt, Dean wastes no time continuing with what he'd been doing, sucking bruises against Cas’s collarbone and ribs as he works his way down.

Cas is gorgeously sensitive, and Dean takes his time mapping out every place that makes him tick, makes his gasp and moan and clench his fist in the bedspread. Dean flicks the tip of his tongue against a nipple, and Cas jolts beneath him.

“Like that?” He asks before he repeats the action.

“Very much,” Cas admits. His voice is higher than normal, and he's already panting. “Please don't stop.”

“More where that came from.” Dean promises, and smiles against Cas’s skin as he begins to follow the line of hair down Cas’s abdomen, pausing a moment to dip his tongue in his navel. Cas jerks with a squeak that was frankly adorable, and Dean bites back a laugh.

“Ticklish?” He asks.

Cas glares down at him. “No.” He says petulantly; Dean doesn't believe him for a second. “Just...sensitive. It felt odd.”

Dean hums, and crawls back up to kiss him. He eases Cas down until he's laying on the bed with Dean leaning over him, elbows framing his face. He presses his hips against Cas’s, and groans when their groins brush together; they're both hard, and Cas raises his knees so that Dean can slot perfectly between them, increasing the friction. Dean languidly rolls his hips and Cas fucking _mewls_ , hands fidgeting, as though he's unsure where he's allowed to touch Dean.

Dean answers his silent question by grabbing Cas’s hands, and threading their fingers together. He presses them down into the mattress, and he feels Cas relax into it, squeezing his hands.

He stays like that for a few minutes, just kissing Cas and holding his hands, thumbing across his knuckles, both of them slowly rutting against one another. The friction is _delicious_ , and Dean gasps when Cas plants his feet flat on the bed and grinds up off the bed.

He looks down at Cas and kisses the smug look of satisfaction from his face.

“Pants,” he says, and he slips two fingers beneath Cas’s waistband. “Please?”

Cas nods, and lifts his hips. Dean kisses his way down Cas’s throat and chest as he peels off the other man’s sweatpants, tossing them with abandon in the same vague direction as the t-shirt.

“Fuck, Cas,” he whispers reverently against the skin of his stomach. “You're amazing.” He nips at Cas’s hipbone, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin against it, just as he’d fantasized, and it's Cas’s turn to gasp, the sound sharp and beautiful.

Dean has never worshipped anything in his life, never given over his mind, body, and soul to something much bigger than him, until this moment. But right now, he whispers praise into Cas’s skin like it's a prayer, a benediction. He touches the former angel like he's something precious, something that could crumble to dust with a single breath, something holy and beautiful.

He smooths his hand along Cas’s ribcage, splaying his fingers against the warm skin, as though he’s a potter molding clay. Cas responds to it like it's the air he needs to breathe, like he was made for this. His hands clutch in the sheets, and he's biting his lip so hard it looks like he could draw blood as he tries to hold back a moan. His eyes are closed, screwed tightly, as he arches into Dean's palms.

“Let me hear you," Dean whispers wetly against Cas's hipbone. "Don't hold back on me."

“Dean,” Cas gasps, and he sounds absolutely wrecked. Dean groans as he feels his cock twitch in interest. “Dean, please.”

Dean mouths at Cas’s erection through his boxers, and one of Cas’s hands finds his hair again and _pulls._ The pleasure-pain shoots straight into Dean’s dick, and he groans.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean breathes. “You keep that up and this is gonna be over a lot sooner.”

The hand in his hair loosens.

“My apologies,” Cas says softly, still breathing heavily.

Dean grins and pulls himself up to kiss him. “It's okay,” he says when they pull apart. “I like it.” He palms at Cas’s erection and the ex-angel grunts and pants, his breathing harsh and fast.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Dean whispers. “I got you.”

“Dean–” Cas whines as Dean latches onto his neck. He tongues at Cas’s pulse point, suckling a bruise there while he rubs the heel of his hand against the hard line of Cas’s erection. “ _Dean–!”_

Cas keens, and jackknifes off the bed. Dean grins against his neck, and repeats the motion again...until he feels the wet spot that's formed at the front of Cas’s boxers. He pulls away, realization dawning quickly as he looks down, his fingers coming away slightly tacky.

“Fuck, Cas, did you just…?”

Cas rolls away from him, groaning wretchedly and burying his face in the pillow next to him as he curls into a ball.

“I'm sorry.” He says, the shame in his voice loud and clear despite being muffled by the pillow. “I'm sorry, I tried to wait…”

“Hey, shh, it's fine.” Dean wipes his sticky fingertips on the bed and gently rubs Cas’s back. “It happens sometimes.”

Cas grumbles into the pillow.

“Cas, man, I can't understand you.” Dean says, still rubbing small circles into the warm, flushed skin of his back.

Cas raises his head from the pillow. “I believe this is what they mean when they say that the moment is ruined, Dean.” He says, and buries his face back in the pillow.

“You didn't ruin shit.” Dean tries to make his voice as soothing as possible. “It happens to every guy, Cas. Hell, it's happened to me. Plenty of times.”

“This isn't making me feel any better.” Cas says. He looks over his shoulder at Dean; he has his smitey face on again, but this time, Dean can tell it's turned inward. He hates the dismay he sees in those blue eyes.

“I don't mind, Cas.” Dean assures him gently. “Shit happens. It's normal every once in a while.”

Cas groans in reply. “My luck continues to deteriorate.” He casts a withering glance at the iris in the corner. “And now _it_ has ruined this.”

Dean chuckles. “Here, sit up.” He instructs.

Cas hesitates for a moment, but does as he's told. He wrinkles his nose at the cooling mess in his boxers and reaches for them, but Dean stops him.

“Let me.” He says. “Let me show you nothing is ruined.” He looks at Cas for confirmation, to make sure they're on the same page.

Cas’s eyes flash with want and he nods. With permission granted, Dean shimmies his way down and kisses his stomach before hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling down the boxers. He tosses them mindlessly in the direction of the floor and bends down to lick the former angel clean. Cas gasps and his oversenitized cock gives a half hearted twitch, his toes curling against the bed.

“Fuck,” Dean hears him breathe. The expletive sounds foreign coming from Cas’s mouth, but it's one _hell_ of a turn on.

“Like that, hm?”

“ _Yes._ ”

“Good to know.” Dean wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and crawls back up until they're eye level. Cas doesn't hesitate to reach out for him, and Dean falls easily into the kiss, humming contentedly at the way Cas shifts closer.

He's so lost to the way Cas is trailing his fingers over the curve of his left shoulder, Dean almost misses the fact that Cas is talking, whispering low in his ear.

“Hm?” He asks. “Sorry, I...I didn't catch that.”

“I said,” Cas repeats. “Did you want help with that?”

A hand presses against the straining zipper of Dean’s jeans. Pleasure erupts behind his eyes, and Dean groans and let's his head thunk against the pillow.

“Fuck yes,” he breathes, and Cas kisses him as he fumbles at Dean’s belt. He eventually manages to free it and drags the zipper down; even though it all only takes a few seconds, each one is agonizing to Dean. Cas moves to copy Dean’s earlier conquests on his throat, and he moans when he feels teeth sink into the fleshy part of his neck where it connects to his shoulder.

Cas turns out to be a quick study; he’s slowly making his way down Dean’s body, just as Dean had done to him, and it's driving him _crazy._ Cas pays particular attention to his nipples, which he had always loved having played with but had never been able to readily admit to. He moans in encouragement.

And then it's like Cas’s patience snaps, and suddenly, Cas is dragging his underwear away from his aching erection, finally freeing it. Then he wraps his fingers around the base of Dean’s cock, and without any preamble at all, swallows him down.

Dean sees _stars._ His back arches off the bed, and he barely manages to stifle a shout. As it turns out, Cas does not possess a gag reflex.

It's uncoordinated, sloppy, and what Cas lacks in experience he sure as shit makes up for in goddamn _enthusiasm._

Shit damn fucking _fuck_ it's amazing. He sinks his fingers into Cas’s dark hair and gasps Cas’s full name; he tries to remember how to breathe. After what feels like hours but could only have been about a minute, Cas hums and pulls off.

“Am I doing this correctly?” He asks, voice dark and cracked at the edges.

“You keep that up, and I'm never letting you leave this bed again.” Dean pants. Cas licks a stripe on the underside of his dick in answer, his eyes never leaving Dean’s, and he almost comes right then and there. “ _Fuck_ , Cas, where'd you learn to do that?”

“I'm not nearly as naïve as you think me to be, Dean.” Cas says. “After all, I _am_ millennia old, and I've been human for nearly six months, with the internet at my disposal. I have...sought out certain entertainment for the purpose of sexual education multiple times.”

The idea of Cas watching porn for getting off and learning how to give a blowjob is frankly the hottest thing Dean has ever pictured, and he's got _a lot_ of pent up fantasies about the former angel buried deep in his imagination.

He wonders, for a moment, if Cas had been thinking about Dean when he'd watched them. God knows Dean is entirely guilty of searching for buzzwords like “dark hair+blue eyes” all too often when perusing his usual haunts on lonely nights left to his own devices. What are Cas’s preferences? Does he prefer men, women, or, like Dean, both? What type of kinks is he into? Do any of them match Dean’s own?

His train of thought is derailed by the warmth of Cas’s mouth sinking back down on his cock, and he's lost to the sensations once more. He knows he's close, already hard to the point of pain even with the pleasure that sparks through his entire body every time Cas bobs his head, and he bites his lip when Cas swallows around him, blunt fingernails digging into Cas’s scalp subconsciously.

“Cas, wait.” He manages to gasp out as Cas presses his hips down into the mattress with his hands to keep Dean from thrusting up. “Gonna...gonna come if you keep doing that.”

“Isn't that the point?” Cas asks him, and if he weren't so fucking turned on right now, Dean would roll his eyes at the former angel’s sass.

“Smartass,” Dean huffs out a laugh that quickly bites off into another moan as Cas resumes his ministrations. “Fuck, Cas, don't stop.”

The hum he receives tells him that the former angel has no intention of doing so.

His orgasm, already boiling deep in his belly, doesn't take long to swell towards completion. Dean is near the point of goddamn _ecstasy_ with every flick of Cas’s clever tongue as he continues to swallow him down like he was fucking _made_ for it, unable to stop himself from moaning and gasping the other man’s name. Dean has never been particularly vocal in bed, save for dirty talk, but with Cas he can't _help it._ He's entirely lost to everything he's saying, slipping out words of endearment and praise and obscenities in equal measure, and Cas continues to blow him like a goddamn porn star–

No, better than a porn star. This is _Cas_ , and nothing could ever dare compare to this, to the way Dean feels right now, in this moment.

“Fuck I love you.”

This time, he knows exactly what he's said, because time comes to an abrupt standstill. Cas freezes, and raises his head, Dean’s dick jumping in protest as it falls from the ex-angel’s mouth, a long, ropey string of saliva connecting the crown to Cas’s lips. Cas’s blue eyes are the size of dinner plates, wide and unblinking.

“What did you say?” He whispers, breathlessly.

Dean swallows, and prays to God or whoever else might be listening that he hasn't just ruined everything, hasn't just lost this precious thing before he could truly have it.

“I said…” He fights against the urge to swallow the words down, against the rising panic in his chest at the very thought of uttering the words in full consciousness. “C’mon, Cas, you know what I said.”

“I know what I _think_ you said.” Cas retorts. “What did you say, Dean?”

“I–” Dean gathers every shred of courage he's ever had. He's faced down demons, wendigos, vampires, angels, demigods, and even Death himself, but nothing has scared him like this.

He's Dean fucking Winchester, and he can tell the gorgeous man between his legs looking up at him with those too blue eyes and spit slick lips from sucking his cock that he loves him, goddammit.

“I said I love you, okay?” He says, so fast that it almost comes out as a single word. He strokes Cas’s hair, heart in his throat. “God, Cas, I fuckin’ love you.”

In seconds, Cas is laying on top of him, bearing him down against the memory foam, kissing him, deep and hungry and _tender_ , over and over, until Dean is trembling.

“I love you too.” He whispers against Dean’s lips.

In that second, it's as if the final piece clicks into place, and Dean’s entire world feels whole for the first time in his entire damn life. He feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as Cas continues to kiss him, and he brings a hand to the back of Cas’s head to keep him there as Cas snakes his hand between their bodies and takes hold of his cock. He jacks Dean off slowly, with each movement like a sacrament, meant only for the two of them.

Dean comes, there in their own little universe, tears running down his temples back into his hair, with Cas kissing him and whispering unintelligibly in his ear, and it's better than anything Dean has ever felt. It's the best orgasm of his life, whiting out his entire awareness, intense pleasure coursing through every vein, igniting every cell. In that moment, it's as if Cas is once again remaking him as he did when he pulled him from hell, shaping him with reverent words whispered against flushed skin, imbuing his very being with love and purpose.

Dean knows he can never be the man he was when he woke up this morning at the ass crack of dawn, the man he was before he kissed Cas in the bathroom, the man he was even just before he pulled Cas into his bedroom and pressed him down on the bed.

What's more, he doesn't want to be.

He wants to be exactly who he is _right now_ , in this moment with Cas coaxing him through the aftershocks of his orgasm, come painting both of their chests and Dean panting like he's just run for his life.

“I love you.” He whispers again, and he laughs shakily. He opens his eyes to find Cas’s mere inches from his, and he can't seem to stop the tremble in his limbs as he comes down from his high, finding his ground in those eyes. “I love you.”

He leans their foreheads together and smiles.

“It feels good to say that.” He admits.

“It...feels good to hear it.” Cas’s tone is shy, and he smiles down at Dean.

“I'm sorry I was an idiot.” Dean rubs the tip of nose along Cas’s cheekbone. “I'm sorry I waited this long, that I waited until you were cursed to say anything.”

Cas hums in acknowledgment and leans back to wipe the tears from Dean’s face. If it were anyone else, Dean would be floundering, embarrassed at his moment of weakness, but with Cas…

Nothing to do with Cas can ever be a _weakness._

They don't say anything else for a while, content to simply lay with one another and trade languid kisses between them until finally the feeling of dried come flaking off his chest squicks him out enough to speak up.

“We should get cleaned up.” He says. “I feel gross.”

Cas chuckles and kisses him one last time before he pushes himself into a sitting position. He stands and walks over to where his clothes lay haphazard on the floor, and he stoops to pick them up. Dean gets a good look at his bare ass, and takes a moment to appreciate it as Cas uses his already come stained boxers to clean off the excess of Dean’s spunk from his chest.

Dean scratches at one of the flakey pieces on his own stomach. He reaches into his bedside table for the wet wipes he keeps there (next to a bottle of Überlube and a dildo he's had for years) and shows Cas.

“This works better.” He says, pulling out a wipe and using it to clean himself off. He tosses the pack to the other man, who catches it with ease.

Once he's satisfied he's clean, Dean tosses the wadded up wipe into the trash can and kicks off his jeans and underwear from where Cas abandoned them pooling at his ankles. He pulls back the quilt and shimmies underneath.

He looks back at Cas, who is looking at him with a small smile, head tilted to the side.

“You comin’ back or what?” He asks, raising the edge of the quilt.

Cas grins and crawls under the covers with him. The cool sheets feel fantastic on their flushed, sweaty skin, and Dean sighs contentedly as Cas presses himself against him, molding their bodies together seamlessly. Their legs tangle, and Dean reaches around Cas to pull him closer. He tucks Cas’s head under his chin, and gently rubs his hand up and down Cas’s bicep.

“‘M sleepy.” Cas says sluggishly, yawning.

“Yeah, that's pretty normal for a guy after sex.” Dean informs him. He presses a kiss to Cas’s forehead. “Get some sleep. We gotta lot of curse curing to do tomorrow.”

“Uh huh,” Cas mutters. His breath is warm against Dean’s collarbone. Within just a few minutes, he's snoring quietly, and Dean huffs out a laugh.

“Night, angel,” he whispers.

It isn't long before sleep takes him, too, and he doesn't dream.

 

***

 

Cas is a goddamn _bed hog_.

When Dean wakes up the next morning, it's to the warm body of a former angel in all his naked glory half laying on top of him, his face pressed into Dean’s neck and one leg and arm thrown over him, hugging him close like an oversized koala bear. Sometime in the night, the sheets had gotten kicked down, pooling around their hips, though one cheek of Cas’s ass still shines for all the world to see. He's crowded Dean against the edge of the bed, and he's snoring, which Dean finds adorable but will never admit to.

Dean can't help the fluttering feeling of _contentment_ he feels as he looks down at the slumbering ex-angel on his chest. Cas is completely oblivious to everything going on around him, and he's goddamn gorgeous, with his hair a mess and his features completely at ease. Dean affectionately reaches up to card his fingers through his soft hair, remembering how it felt to wash it the night before.

God, had it truly only been a day?

Laying here, naked as the day he was born with the man he's pined after for nigh on a decade pressed warm and heavy against him, Dean supposes that none of this should come as any sort of surprise. He and Cas have been caught in this dance for as long as Dean can remember. They've always been hurtling towards one another, always destined to collide, to end up here, in this moment, wrapped together in one another’s arms. Nothing has ever felt as _right_ as this.

He wouldn't trade it for anything in this world or the next.

As tempting as it is to stay here, and doze in the little bubble of warmth and happiness, Dean’s bladder disagrees. As gently as he can, Dean extracts himself from Cas’s arms. The former angel groans in protest, his face contorting in displeasure, and Dean leans over to gently rub his thumb between his eyebrows. The lines there instantly smooth, and Cas’s breath evens out as he slips back into a peaceful sleep.

“Sleep, angel,” he whispers. “It's okay.”

He had always expected having this - having Cas - would scare the living fuck out of him. And in some ways, it does. Cas is human, can die a human death, can get sick and cry and bleed just like the rest of them, and some days it terrifies him. He had always expected that finally having Cas - _really_ having him, in every way Cas was willing to give - would make him want to run, get into Baby and hit the highway and never look back, make him want to bottle up every emotion and throw it off the nearest bridge.

But this. Dean wants this. He wants everything _this_ entails.

He wants to spend the rest of his life with Cas.

He supposes that should scare him, but it doesn't scare him half as much as losing him does, as living a life without him does, and that makes all the difference.

Dean pulls the sheets up to Cas’s shoulders, and tucks them around him. He kisses Cas’s forehead, and swears he sees a ghost of a smile when he pulls back.

He walks over to his dresser and pulls out a new pair of boxers and a fresh t-shirt. He tugs them both on before he grabs his dead guy robe from the hook on the back of his door and slips his arms into the sleeves, and ties the sash around his waist.

He slips out into the hallway and closes the door behind him as quietly as he can, and makes his way into the bathroom.

Dean brushes his teeth, and runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to tame some of the evidence of the previous night’s sexcapade. Two hickeys adorn his throat, one near the bolt of his jaw and the other where his shoulder and neck meet, loud and proud and undeniable in their existence; he presses against the one on his jaw, relishing in the slight stinging ache. Dean doesn’t care; they stand as a testament to what was frankly the best sex of Dean’s life, and he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of them. Cas has several dotting his body from his own mouth, marking the former angel as _his;_ he supposes it’s only right that Cas claimed him in turn.

“Are those hickeys?”

Dean jumps and whirls around to find Sam in the doorway. Sam has a knowing smile on his face, his eyebrow raised as he regards his older brother. Dean feels his face heat up, but he squares his shoulders and looks his brother head on.

“So what if they are?” He asks.

Sam laughs. “Nothing, man. I told you yesterday, I’m happy for you guys. I just never pegged Cas as the hickey-giving type.”

“He’s full of surprises.” Dean says, winking. Sam shakes his head and raises his hands.

“I don’t wanna know.” He says quickly. “But, uh, it’s good you’re here, because I found Natalia Jennings’ address.”

Oh. Right. The iris. The luck curse. In the euphoric afterglow of last night, Dean had almost forgotten.

“Took a while.” He says.

Sam shrugs. “Actually, not really. I got an address not long after you and Cas went to bed. I found it pretty easily once I started searching for articles about the competition from previous years. Natalia Jennings lives on 126 Lakeview Drive, on the north side of town.”

Dean nods. “Good deal.” He pats Sam’s shoulder. “Good job, Sammy. I'm gonna go make coffee. Cas and I will head out after we've had breakfast.”

“Save some coffee for me,” Sam calls after him as he walks down the hallway, back towards his room.

“Get your own, Sasquatch!” He yells back.

In the kitchen, Dean grabs three mugs from the shelf while he waits for the coffee to percolate. He spoons two heaps of sugar in his, and fills the bottom of Cas’s mug with honey and a splash of milk, just the way Cas likes it. Sam prefers his straight black, so he leaves the mug for Sam alone. He glances at the little clock on the wall by the door, which reads 10:26; he and Cas had slept almost ten hours.

 _Well,_ Dean’s downstairs brain reminds him cheekily. _You both_ **_did_ ** _get a thorough wearing out._

Dean internally rolls his eyes and tells his dick to simmer down; he and Cas need to get a move on this morning up to Hastings so they can ice this fucking curse. And if this Natalia Jennings is a witch, maybe ice her too.

The percolator stops, and Dean pours coffee into the three mugs. He puts a napkin over Sam’s, and scoops up his and Cas’s mugs, heading back towards his room.

He toes open the door quietly. Cas has rolled over into the middle of the bed, laying on his back with his hands extended over his head. The sheets have gotten kicked down again, leaving them artfully tousled at Cas’s hips like a Michelangelo painting.

This is _his_ , Dean thinks as he walks across the room to gently settle on the side of the bed. He gets to keep this.

The thought is like a life giving fire in his soul - the very soul this man claimed and pulled out of hell - and the wave of love that washes over him makes his skin erupt in goosebumps.

“Cas,” he says softly, leaning over to set both mugs of coffee on the bedside table. “Cas, it's time to wake up.”

Cas’s nose wrinkles adorably, and he groans. Ever since his fall, Cas has had a predilection towards being a morning person, often rousing early to practice meditative yoga, or to go running with Sam. However, most days he's been known to take a page from Dean’s book, and is a grumpy little shit until he's at least one cup of coffee in.

“C’mon, I made you coffee.” Dean encourages. “Just the way you like it.”

“No.” Cas bites out, steadfastly refusing to move.

“Hey, c’mon,” Dean soothes, tracing the edge of Cas’s anti-possession tattoo on his left pectoral, same as him and Sam. “We gotta get a move on. Sam found Natalia Jennings’ address. We gotta head up to Hastings so we can get this whole iris shit cleared up.”

Cas huffs and finally squints open his eyes, glaring at Dean, who smiles and leans forward to press a kiss to his temple.

“Mornin’, sunshine.” He says.

Cas grunts in reply, rubbing blearily at his eyes, leaning on one elbow for support. Dean hands him his coffee mug, which he takes a long drink from, despite still being piping hot.

“Better?” Dean asks.

Cas takes another long sip before he puts his mug back on the table, and falls back against the bed with another groan. He throws an arm over his eyes.

“Your bed is much more comfortable than mine,” he says, voice thick with sleep.

“Memory foam.” Dean grins. “It remembers you.”

Cas gives a single grunt in reply, and Dean shakes his head. He leans down and moves the sheet away from Cas’s hips with a finger before he tongues at the hickey on Cas’s sharp hipbone, sucking at it gently.

Cas groans.

"If your goal is to get me out of the bed," he grumbles, "That's not the way to do it."

Dean chuckles. He moves Cas’s arm away from his face to kiss him.

“C’mon, wake up, sleeping beauty.” He says. “Sooner we ice this case, sooner we can come back here and…” He leaves the sentence hanging, and nips Cas’s bottom lip to get his message across.

Cas reads loud and clear. He swallows audibly, licking his lips, his blue eyes blown with lust. “Is that a promise?”

“Fuck yeah it is.” Dean smiles at him. “It's a fucking vow.”

Cas pulls him in for a bruising kiss, hands smoothing over his biceps.

“I love you.” He says, and Dean’s chest tightens with warmth.

“Love you too.” He says back softly. He kisses him again. “Now, c’mon, get some pants on, and get a move on. If you hurry, we can take a shower and I'll wash your hair again.”

Cas’s eyes light up, and he sits up in bed, stretching languidly. Dean watches the muscles in his shoulders as they roll under his skin, and his throat feels dry. He schools his dick, telling it to _behave for twenty freakin’ minutes goddammit_ and watches as Cas’s bare ass bends over to pull on his sweatpants from the night before.

He smiles at Dean, and Dean knows there's _no way_ they're making it to the shower.

 

***

 

Two hours later, and Dean is humming along to the tune of _Hotel California_ from the Eagles tape he'd let Cas pick out from the box under the seat.

Cas is sitting in the passenger seat, the iris in the footwell of the backseat, swaying merrily as the Impala cruises over dips and cracks in the asphalt. Cas is looking out the window, watching the flat Nebraska countryside as it passes. They're about ten minutes out of Hastings, having left after a shower that had taken too long for them to even grab breakfast to go if they wanted to make it to Hastings. Dean can't find it in him to regret how he'd pressed Cas against the wall of the shower under the steaming spray and dropped to his knees to give Cas the blowjob of his life. Cas had threaded his fingers in his hair and pulled just the way Dean liked until he'd came down his throat, moaning so loud Dean was sure Sam heard it.

“So how ‘bout we stop at that diner and get some lunch before we go searchin’ for flower lady?” He asks.

Cas’s stomach growls loudly, and he looks down at it, glaring as though it's betrayed him.

“That sounds pleasant.” He says.

Dean smiles and reaches over to swipe at Cas’s hair, windswept from the open window.

“You're gettin’ kinda long there, Shaggy.” He says. “I'll give you a haircut if you want.”

“I would like that.” Cas says.

Dean drops his hand onto the seat, and threads his fingers through Cas’s. He glances in the rearview mirror at the iris.

“So, uh,” he says. “When we find this Natalia and lift this iris juju curse, what do you wanna do with the flower?”

“Burn it, preferably.” Cas answers without hesitation.

Dean’s eyebrows raise and he glances at the ex-angel. “Whoa, that's a bit harsh, don'tcha think? I mean, the flower didn't do nothing; it's not its fault it got cursed.”

Cas levels the iris with a simmering scowl in the rear view. “I don't care.” He growls. “I want it _gone.”_

“Tell ya what,” Dean says diplomatically. “We get there when we get there, yeah? We’ll figure it out.”

Cas regards him for a moment, and Dean is struck by how breathtaking he is like this, with the early afternoon sun outlining him in gold and the wind rippling through his black hair. He's wearing his sunglasses, and another pair of Dean’s hand-me-down jeans and a heather grey Henley, and he's the most beautiful thing Dean’s ever seen.

“Alright,” Cas concedes.

They don't say anything else as they cross over the city limits into Hastings, and Dean finds the diner where they'd eaten the day before and parks Baby in an empty spot.

They climb out, and Cas crouches down to get the cart from the backseat. He sighs as he opens it and gingerly lifts the iris into it.

“Won't the patrons find it a bit odd that we’re accompanied by a nearly four foot tall iris?” Cas asks as they head for the door. Dean holds it open for him.

“We’ll make it up as we go.” Dean stage whispers to him, and smiles widely at the hostess. “Table for two, please.”

Sure enough, the hostess gives the iris a raised eyebrow as they wheel it behind them to their booth.

“I love irises!” She says cheerfully as she seats them. “My mother used to grow them in her garden. But, if you don't mind me asking, why are you bringing it in here?”

“Well, see,” Dean starts without missing a beat. He gestures to Cas. “This guy here is a botany professor for the University of Michigan, and he's doin’ a research study on the attachment styles of plants.”

The hostess looks perplexed. “I...didn't know plants had attachment styles.”

“Exactly!” Dean winks at her. “That's what he's trying to find out.”

The hostess nods slowly before she smiles. “Well, good luck with your research, professor!” She says. She hands them both menus. “Your waiter will be Taylor and he’ll be right over.”

“Thank you.” Cas says.

Dean watches her leave before he leans forward and grins at Cas.

“Totally nailed that cover story.” He says, smug.

Cas hums in agreement as he looks over the menu.

“So whatcha thinkin’?” Dean asks as he picks up and opens his own menu. He’d gotten the pancakes yesterday, since it was still breakfast time, but today he’s thinking a burger. “Their cheeseburger looks good.” He points to the salad options. “They have a kale salad.”

“I do not like kale.” Cam says darkly. “It's an abomination and should be redacted from the earth.”

Alright. So Cas wants to smite kale.

A young boy no older than nineteen with long blue hair and the start of a patchy beard walks over. He smiles at them.

“Hey, I’m Taylor. I’ll take your order whenever you’re ready.” He flips open a notepad and poises his pen over it.

“I’ll have the bacon cheeseburger, extra bacon.” Dean says.

“Fries okay?” Taylor asks.

“Absolutely.”

Taylor nods and writes it down before he looks at Cas. “And for you?”

“I’ll have the club sandwich, and fries as well.” Cas smiles at the boy.

“Comin’ up.” Taylor says. He takes their menus and goes to put their order in.

“So what’s the plan?” Cas asks when Taylor is out of earshot.

Dean shrugs. “We get to Natalia Jennings house, see if she has anything to do with the death of Marjorie Porter, and go from there.” He says.

“And if Natalia doesn’t have anything to do with Marjorie’s death?”

“We’re back to square one, I guess.” Dean scratches at his ear and levels Cas with a look he hopes says, _Trust me._

Cas sighs, and looks at the iris out the corner of his eye.

“I’ll be back.” He says, standing. “I have to use the restroom.” He glares down at the iris as he takes hold of the handle and wheels it behind him. Dean chokes back a chuckle. He really shouldn’t be laughing, he knows, because Cas’s grumpy, inconvenienced facial expressions aside, a cursed object is nothing to goad about, especially a luck curse. But despite the seriousness of the situation _and_ the fact that they very well could be killing a witch this afternoon, the sheer and utter _joy_ he feels at finally, finally being able to voice his feelings for Cas - and having those feelings returned, no less - is just so damn freeing that he can’t help it.

He wishes they could have confessed their feelings for each other under better circumstances, but Dean can’t bring himself to regret any of it, nonetheless.

Cas comes back from the bathroom, iris in tow, a few minutes later. He drops onto his seat and grumbles, reaching for the glass of water Taylor had brought by and chugging half of it in one go. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Everything okay there, sunshine?” He asks.

“You try wheeling an iris into the men’s room and stand at a urinal with it next to you.” Cas bites. “I just want this curse _broken_ so I can stop getting weird looks everywhere we go!”

“Not much longer, babe,” he says. He takes a drink of his own water, and the expression on Cas’s face gives him pause.

“What?” He asks, frowning. “Something on my face?”

“No,” Cas says. “You’ve just never called me that before.”

Huh. He hadn’t even noticed it had slipped out. He says as much, and Cas smiles softly.

“I like it better than ‘buddy.’” He says.

“Well, you are still my buddy, in a way,” Dean shrugs. “You’re still my best friend, Cas. The best I’ve ever had. I just happen to live with you, shower with you, and sleep with you, especially in the Biblical sense.” He waggles his eyebrows and Cas rolls his eyes, but the smile on his lips only widens.

“You’re incorrigible.” He laughs.

“You love it.”

Cas’s eyes are shining when he nods.

“I do.”

Taylor chooses this moment to bring them their food, politely asking if there’s anything else they need. Dean dismisses the kid with a friendly nod.

He and Cas don’t say anything else while they eat, instead falling into their familiar companionable silence. Cas finishes his sandwich first, settling back into the seat to look out the window.

Dean observes him as he bites down into the rest of his cheeseburger. He follows Cas’s line of sight to the young couple walking hand in hand down the street; Cas smiles fondly, but Dean can see the hint of longing there too.

Dean isn't blind; he'd seen the way a few of the burly trucker types had looked their way when Dean had called Cas _sunshine_ and _babe_ earlier, how they'd sneered in disgust. He knew Cas had seen it too, because he'd immediately ceased looking at Dean in any way that could be misconstrued.

He reaches out his left hand, palm up on the table, and wiggles his fingers in invitation. Cas blinks and looks at his hand and then at the backs of the other patrons who'd given them the stink eye.

“Fuck ‘em.” Dean whispers.

Cas smiles then, with his entire face, and threads their fingers together on the sticky tabletop. It's hard to eat his burger one handed, but Dean wouldn't let go of Cas’s hand for anything if it makes Cas smile like that.

If anyone in the diner has anything to say, they keep it to themselves.

 

***

 

126 Lakeview Drive is a lovely ranch style home on the north side of town. It's painted a calming sage green with terracotta trim, and a long driveway fringed with neatly trimmed shrubberies and rose bushes. There's a huge magnolia tree in the front yard, in full bloom, and Castiel can smell it from down the street as they approach in the Impala.  

Dean pulls over at the curb and kills the engine.

“Alright,” he says. “We sure on our cover story?”

They'd discussed it on the way here, and had decided that the best way to investigate whether Natalia was the witch they were looking for or not would be to pose as botanists, just as Dean had suggested back at the diner, and say they'd found the iris at a local greenhouse and had been directed to her when they'd asked of its origins, as they were interested in cultivating and breeding it. It wasn't solid by any means, but Dean had seemed sure that it would work in a pinch. Castiel hoped he was right.

Then again, he has followed Dean farther with less, and he'd do it again in a heartbeat.

They get out of the car, and Dean looks up and down the street carefully to make sure no one is around before he opens the trunk. He passes a pistol loaded with witch killing bullets to Castiel, who conceals it at his hip while Dean tucks his into the back of his pants. Castiel carefully slides his arm into the holster he'd made for his angel blade shortly after he became human, having no means to summon it any longer. The holster is controlled by a mechanism that allows him to pull a pin attached to a chord from where it hangs into his palm with his middle finger, which releases the angel blade into his palm. It has yet to fail him on a hunt, and when he has time between hunts, he's currently working on a set for Sam and Dean, and one for Claire as well, who had proclaimed it “badass” upon seeing it for the first time and asked for her own. Castiel pulls on the canvas jacket he'd bought to replace the trench coat on warmer days, and nods to Dean that he's ready.

Castiel begrudgingly pulls the little cart behind him as he and Dean trek up the long driveway to the front door. He’s anxious to find the witch who cursed this iris - whether it’s Natalia Jennings or not - and never have to set eyes on the plant again. The sooner the better, preferably.

Dean glances over his shoulder at him for confirmation, and Castiel nods. Dean turns back and squares his shoulders, and rings the doorbell.

They stand on the porch for several seconds, but no one comes to the door. Dean leans over to peer inside the window, cupping his hands against the glass. He shakes his head and turns back to Castiel.

“I can’t see shit.” He says. He gestures for Castiel to follow him, and they walk around the house to the backyard. Castiel nearly tips the cart over when the wheels hit an uneven patch of pavement, and he growls in frustration.

“You okay?” Dean asks.

“Fine.” Castiel answers. He nods at the backdoor. “Try there?”

Dean walks underneath the overhanging porch and raps on the window of the door.

Still, no one comes to the door.

“Okay then,” Dean says softly as he digs into the pocket of his jacket. “We’ll do this the hard way.” He pulls out his lock picks, and carefully selects one from the kit. “Watch my back for me, Cas.” He says, and carefully sets to work.

“Always.” Cas says, and looks around him, surveying the backyard. It's smaller than the front yard, but Castiel can see that it was immaculately cared for, with close cropped grass and neat rows of flower beds.  

Wait…

Castiel frowns and steps away from Dean, who is still working on the lock, and walks into the backyard. What _used_ to be flower beds have been reduced to piles of dirt, with broken twigs and leaves strewn across the soil and grass. Castiel crouches down next to one of the flowerbeds and picks up a rosebud, still tight and unopened, from the ground. It would have been gorgeous when it was in bloom, a lovely shade of peach, about the size of his palm, had it not been beheaded from its host.

“Dean.” He calls, still peering at the rosebud, tilting his head.

“Hang on.” Dean calls back. “Almost got it.”

Castiel slowly stands, rosebud still in his hand, and walks a bit farther into the yard. He leaves the iris on the concrete of the back patio, and ventures forward, looking at the destroyed garden before him. Some of the holes in the beds still have roots, jagged and mangled in the soil like bones in a mass grave, and it is clear they’d been hacked at in a hurry. Castiel realizes he’s gotten too far from the iris when he trips in one of the holes, barely avoiding a broken ankle as he stumbles to the side.

He has no doubt in his mind that this yard had once been a teeming, verdant garden, groomed to perfection. Now it is like a desecrated graveyard.

He stops at the edge of one of the smaller beds, where several plants are still standing. He instantly recognizes them as rosemary and sage bushes, both herbs being main ingredients in witchcraft rituals. He’s beginning to think that Sam was right, and Natalia Jennings is, indeed, the witch that cursed the iris, and subsequently murdered Marjorie Porter.

“Cas, what’re you doing?” Dean calls to him. Cas turns his head and sees that Dean is standing at the door, his hand on the handle; he must have successfully picked the lock. “Come back over here; I got it open.”

Castiel very carefully makes his way back to the patio, taking care to watch where he steps, where he grabs hold of the iris’s cart, instantly feeling simultaneously better and annoyed at having to rely so heavily on a flower for relative safety. He holds the rosebud out to Dean, who frowns and takes it from him, holding it up to the light to get a better look at it.

“It’s a rosebud,” Castiel explains as Dean examines in closely, sniffing at it. “It appears to be from the genus _rosa pascali,_ or the hybrid tea rose, which is what most people think of when they think of roses, as they are the most popular in floral arrangements due to their fragrance and long stems.”

“Is this all you found?” Dean looks from the rosebud out into the destroyed garden.

“I also found a sage and rosemary bush.” Castiel points in the direction of the bushes. “Which areー”

“ーused in hex bags, I know.” Dean finishes for him. “Did you ever check the iris’ pot for a hex bag?”

Castiel nods. He’d done so almost immediately upon finding out that he had been hit with the curse after their experiment in the privacy of his bedroom, but he’d found nothing. He’d checked the iris over thrice, just to be thorough, and had come up with absolutely zilch.

“Alright, then,” Dean says. “That begs the question of what the hell happened here?”

“It appears that Natalia was in a hurry to leave,” Castiel reasons. “And she took her plants with her.”

Dean hums. He gingerly hands the rosebud back to Castiel, who slips it into his pocket; it seems wrong, somehow, to just leave it.

“Let’s go check out the house, then the garage, see if we can find anything.” Dean suggests. He reaches out and takes Castiel’s hand, squeezing it gently, but firmly, and Castiel feels the heady rush of warmth and affection in his chest again.

Dean puts a finger to his lips to indicate quiet as he slowly turns the doorknob of the backdoor. As soon as the latch bolt and strike plate are clear, he lets go and reaches for the pistol in his pants. Castiel places a hand on the gun at his hip, ready to pull it at a moment’s notice, deciding to keep his angel blade in the holster, should he be unable to reach his gun in an emergency.

They very quietly slip into the house, with Castiel taking extra care to raise and lower the cart of the iris over the threshold to avoid making any noise. Dean takes the lead, with Castiel at his back, and leads the way through a modern kitchen, its cabinets open and in disarray. They slowly make their way forward, emerging in a dining room attached to a large living room.

It’s completely empty. There isn’t a single picture on the wall, a chair in any corner, nothing. Nothing but the curtains over the window.

“Shit.” Dean curses. He locks the safety on his gun and tucks it back into his pants. He drags a hand down his face. “You weren’t kidding about her leaving in a hurry.”

Castiel removes his hand from his own weapon, a lead weight beginning to form in his stomach.

If Natalia Jennings had lived here, she’s long gone.

“What do we do, then?” Castiel asks Dean.

“Check the garage, see if there’s anything there.” Dean says. “Then...I don’t know.”

Castiel swallows thickly, his hand tightening on the handle of the cart. Anxiety is clawing its way up his esophagus, threatening to suffocate him as the sinking feeling in his gut tries to pull him under.

If Natalia has up and left in a hurry, she must have had something to hide or run from. It only aids in Castiel’s belief that she is, in fact, the witch they’re looking for.

A witch that has disappeared without a trace.

“Hey,” Castiel is pulled from his internal panic by a hand on his arm. He startles and looks away from the spot on the wall he’d been staring at to find Dean’s green eyes looking at him worriedly.

“You okay?” Dean asks, softly. The pads of his fingers tighten on Castiel’s arm; he is suddenly hypersensitive to the nearly imperceptible pressure and the way it ignites every nerve in his body alight.  

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes, and shakes his head. “If Natalia Jennings is gone, then we have virtually no way of tracking her, Dean.” He looks at the iris, at the velvety texture of the petals. “If we cannot find a way to lift this curse…”

“Hey, don’t do that.” Dean’s hands move to cup his face. “We’ll figure this out, Cas. I promise. We’ll find a way to break it.” He presses their foreheads together, and Castiel reaches forward to fist Dean’s jacket in his fist, allowing it to ground him. “Me an’ Sam, we’ll find a way to get this fucking flower juju offa you. I promise you, Cas, we ain’t givin’ up. I ain’t losing you now, not after I’ve just gotten you.”

Castiel closes his eyes and leans into Dean’s touch. He isn’t sure he’ll ever get used to how comforting, how affirming human touch can be.

Dean kisses his forehead. Castiel decides kissing is his favorite form of touch.

“C’mon,” Dean says softly. “Let’s check the garage and get outta here.”

Castiel nods, and reluctantly steps from Dean’s embrace. The hunter smiles at him, and Castiel tries to smile back.

They lock the door back behind them as they step onto the back patio and head for the garage. Dean tests the side door, and they’re both surprised to find it unlocked. Dean slips inside while Castiel looks once more at the barren flower beds, wondering what they’ll do next. Surely there must be a cure? Sam and Dean had found a cure for the last luck spell they’d encountered; couldn’t they do it again?

“Cas!” He hears Dean call to him sharply. “You’d better get in here!”

Castiel wastes no time hurrying into the garage. Dean has turned on the overhead light, and it standing at the far wall in front of a long work bench. Castiel strides over to him.

“What is it?” He asks.

Dean points to the work bench. On it it is a makeshift altar, the corpse of a dead rabbit rotting within the circle. A bowl of charred herbs sits in front of the rabbit, as well as a flash of fuschia. Castiel reaches out and plucks the spark of color from the chalk circle.

It’s a flower petal, drop of dried blood at its center, maring the rich color.

Specifically, a petal from the very iris at his side.

“Son of a _bitch_.” Castiel mutters.

 

***

 

Cas stews in the Impala while Dean makes his phone call to Sam, telling him about Natalia and her disappearance.

“Shit,” Sam says once Dean has regaled their tale. “How old was that rabbit in the garage?”

“I dunno, man, coupla days maybe.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, and looks back at Cas in the passenger seat of Baby. “It smelled ripe.”

Sam sighs. “She could be anywhere.” He says, forlornly. “How’s Cas holding up?”

“He’s pissed.” Dean says. “Full on smitey face and all, man.”

“I’d be pissed, too, Dean.” Sam says; Dean can almost see the shrug of his shoulders in his voice.

“I’m not saying he shouldn’t be.” Dean defends. “Hell, I’m pissed too that we came all this way for a whole lotta nothin’. But we can’t just give up. Me an’ him are gonna stop by the greenhouse where we bought the iris yesterday, see if the girl there knows anything. Natalia took all of her roses with her; she may have dropped some off there.”

“It’s worth a shot.” Sam agrees. “In the meantime I’m going to see if I can’t find a countercurse, or maybe a hex box to contain it.”

“Good deal.” Dean nods even though he knows Sam can’t see him. “We’ll keep you updated.”

“Bye Dean.”

“Bye Sam.”

Dean pockets his phone and slides into the driver’s seat of the Impala. Cas is still glaring at the iris in the rearview mirror.

 _If looks could kill…_ He thinks.

He puts a hand on Cas’s knee, and the ex-angel turns his blue eyes towards him.

“We’re gonna figure this out, Cas.” He says, trying to reassure him as best he can. He knows it falls short, but he’s gotta try.

Cas just nods, not meeting his eyes. Dean pays his knee and let’s go, starting Baby’s engine.

“Damn, I need gas.” He says. “Let’s stop there before we hit the greenhouse, yeah? Then we’ll head home.”

He pulls into the first gas station he sees.

“I have to urinate,” Cas declares, and climbs out of the car. Dean follows suit and throws him his wallet.

“Prepay $50 while you’re at it.” He says. “And grab me some Mentos!”

He watches as Cas grumbles, trundling the iris inside after him. One lady turns back and looks at it strangely for a moment as she’s leaving. He leans against Baby, tilting his head up towards the sky, hands in his pockets. Cas emerges a few minutes later, a plastic bag in hand. He tosses Dean his wallet.

“Thanks,” Dean says, and smiles at him. Cas ushers the iris back into the backseat before he slides back into the passenger seat.

When he gets back, he finds Cas has procured the pocketknife from the glove box and is using it to scrape away at a scratch off ticket.

“Damn,” Dean says. “Why didn’t I think of that? I won forty-six grand on those last time Sam and I were had a luck curse, before Bela stole it all.” Just the mention of her name, even after all these years, still leaves a foul taste in his mouth.

“Well,” Cas sighs, still scritching away. “I figured, if my luck is going to suck, I may as well get something out of it.”

He hands over three tickets, all of which are winners. One is $100, the other two both $5,000.

“Damn, Cas,” Dean laughs. “You’re makin’ bank, man!”

“That’s the idea.” Cas grumbles grumpily. He scratches off another ticket, and Dean sees he has four more in his lap. He hands the next one to Dean, who blinks at the $10,000 winner symbol shining up at him from the shiny cardstock. Filaments of the scratch powder stick to the pads of his fingers.

“Goddamn, Cas,” Dean says. “We outta go buy ten more of these!”

“You’re welcome to,” Cas says, somewhat flippantly as he finishes up the card he’s on. “But we just won another $10,000 here, and I’m willing to bet the next two will be winners as well.”

The next tickets win them $6,000 and $8,000 respectively. Dean whistles as he looks at the tickets; Cas clicks the pocketknife closed and tosses it back into the glovebox.  

“That’s $44,000, dude!” He laughs. “That’ll pay rent, at least!”

“Dean, we live in an underground bunker.” Cas deadpans. “For free.”

Dean rolls his eyes, and leans over to kiss Cas’s temple. “It’s a joke.” He says.

Cas shrugs, still wearing his smitey face despite the way the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Do with the money what you want.” He says. “I don’t care.”

“Tell ya what,” Dean waves the $100 winning ticket. “We use this one for a nice trip to see Claire at Jody’s, and save the rest for a rainy day.” He tucks the tickets into the box that houses their fake IDs for safekeeping, and slips it back under his seat. “We’ll talk about it later. Let’s get over to the greenhouse and see what Brenda knows about Natalia, if anything.”

“Brandie,” Cas corrects. “Her name is Brandie.”

“Right, Brandie,” Dean nods. “Still got her number?”

Cas shakes his head. “It’s still on the receipt in my canvas bag at the bunker.”

Dean pops a Mento from the roll and holds it out to Cas; he’d gotten the strawberry flavored ones, which were, in Dean’s humble opinion, the only ones worth eating. “Eat a Mento, you’ll feel better.”

Cas begrudgingly takes one of the mints and chews on it pensively.

They don’t speak again as they drive through town, with Baby’s rumbling purr the only sound between them. Dean itches to stop her on the side of the road and kiss the sullen look off of Cas’s face, but he knows that letting Cas be a grumpy bastard until he snaps out of it himself is the only way to ensure that divine wrath doesn’t get turned on him, so he fights the urge.

Later, he promises, he’ll bend him over the hood, and show him some of the finer advantages of the human experience.

Dean turns the corner onto the road with the greenhouse. A large moving van sits out front, the engine idling. No one else is in the parking lot, the greenhouse seemingly devoid of any other customers. This time of day on a Monday, that’s not all that surprising.

Cas throws his arm out, hand on Dean’s chest.

“Dean,” He says urgently. “Look!”

A petite, curvy, dark haired woman in a cream colored sweater climbs out of the driver’s seat of the cab. She glances around before she slams the door and strides into the greenhouse.

“Natalia.” Dean confirms, killing the engine. Cas is already out of the Impala, pulling the iris from the backseat. They both check over their weapons and quietly make their way towards the door. Dean holds a finger to his lips, and makes eye contact with Cas, who nods solemnly. Dean very quietly opens the door, peering inside.

Natalia is standing at the little desk, her hands flat on the surface as she leans forward. Brandie is leaning back, her eyes wide and face pinched with fear.

“What do you mean, you sold it?!” Natalia demands.

“I told you,” Brandie levels back. “I sold it yesterday. It was brought in by some movers from Mrs. Porters’ estate sale, and they said that her family didn’t want it, so we could have it.”

“Who did you sell it to?!”

“I don’t know, some guy!” Brandie throws up her hands in exasperation. “Dark hair, blue eyes! He comes in here sometimes on market days. I don’t know his name.”

Natalia slams her hands against the table furiously and Brandie jumps.

“You bitch!” Natalia hisses. “I _need_ that iris!”

“It’s just a flower!” Brandie defends, trying to put as much space between her and Natalia as possible, but Dean can see she is literally backed into a wall. “What is so special about it that you need it that badly?”

Natalia barks out a laugh, dark and menacing. Dean’s skin prickles at the sound of it; fucking witches and their evil fucking laughs.

“You just don’t get it, do you?” Natalia says, hands going to her hips. She paces in front of the desk slowly, her eyes never leaving the terrified woman behind the desk. “I was the _champion_ of that contest for nine years! _Nine years_ I toiled and pricked my fingers to the bone pruning and plucking at my rose bushes, making sure they were watered and fertilized, and for what?! For some old hag to just swoop in with a fucking backyard _iris_ and steal _my_ title?!”

Natalia swipes her hand across the desk, sending a mason jar filled with pens flying.

“And now you’re telling me that you sold a prize winning iris to a nameless shmuck?! Do you know how _draining_ the spell I put on that flower was?! Do you know how draining it’s going to be to hunt it down?!” Natalia stalks around the desk and advances towards Brandie. She reaches out a hand and points her palm at the girl. “You’re going to pay for inconveniencing me!”

Her palm begins to glow purple, and Brandie gags.

_Oh no you don’t, bitch!_

_“_ Hey!” Dean yells, yanking open the door and stepping inside the greenhouse. Natalia looks over her shoulder at him, snarling. Dean levels his gun at her head. “Let her go!”

Natalia studies him for a moment, eyeing him from foot to head; Dean hates it when evil bitch witches do that. It always makes him feel _dirty._

“Dean Winchester,” Natalia chuckles darkly. She spots Cas as he comes up behind Dean, and she quirks an eyebrow. “And his angelic _pet._ Should have known you’d show up eventually.”

Dean’s skin prickles at the degrading tone of Natalia’s voice when she calls Cas _pet._ Cas isn’t a fucking pet. He’s a goddamn _person,_ a human being with feelings, with autonomy. He is his own person.

Cas isn’t a thing, to be owned. The thought that anyone could think of him as such sets Dean’s blood to a raging boil.

“He ain’t my _pet._ He ain’t anybody’s pet.” Dean snaps. “And I believe he has somethin’ you want.”

Dean glances over his shoulder at Cas, whose big blue eyes are wide. Cas nods and steps further into the greenhouse, wheeling the cart with the iris behind him until it’s firmly in Natalia’s line of view.

Natalia’s shock is evident; she releases her hold on Brandie, who sags against the wall, gasping and coughing as she wheezes did breath.

“ _You?!_ ” Natalia demands. She whirls on Brandie. “You sold that iris to the fucking _Winchesters?!”_

“Who?” Brandie’s voice is garbled, hoarse from where Natalia had been choking her with her magic.

Natalia rolls her eyes. “The Winchesters, you idiot.” She says. “Dean here and his brother are the most notorious hunters of the supernatural out there. Pretty boy there,” she gestures to Cas. “Is an angel.”

“Was an angel,” Cas corrects her. “I’ve been human for six months now.”

“Whatever.” A slow, dark smile works its way across her face. “That just means you’ll be even easier to kill.”

“I don’t think so.” Dean steps closer, gun still leveled at Natalia’s forehead. “You ain’t gonna get that far.”

“Aren’t I, though?” Natalia laughs. “Oh, Dean, you really are all brawn and no brain.” She holds up her hand, and her fingers start to glow purple.

Suddenly, the gun in his hand flies across the room as Natalia flicks her wrist. It fires as it hits the wall, and Brandie yelps as she covers her head and ducks for cover.

Then it’s like there’s a fucking foot on his windpipe as Natalia twists her wrist. Dean chokes, hands flying to his throat, coughing as he tries to breathe. With a pulse of magic, Natalia has him pinned to the wall, like a bug under a microscope.

“Dean!” Cas cries, and steps forward to help him. Natalia sends him flying across the room where he slams into a table of Gerber daisy displays; several of the plants rattle and fall, terracotta pots shattering against the concrete. He gasps in pain as his back collides with the edge, and falls to the ground in a heap. He drops his gun as he does, and Natalia kicks it away from them until it clatters under a table somewhere in the depths of the greenhouse.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/146072938@N08/27900292467/in/album-72157696241640251/)

“You see, Dean,” Natalia says as she stalks towards him like a lion hunting prey in tall grasses. “I’m not like all those other little penny witches you’ve killed in the past.” She grins. “I’m smart. I play my cards right. I live under the radar. I’ve been here in Hastings for the last ten years, and I never tipped any hunters off, did I? No, because _I_ kept a low profile. I didn’t use my magic for anything other than giving my roses the little nudge they needed to grow bright and beautiful. _The_ most bright and beautiful.”

She comes and stands right in front of Dean, reaching out and grabbing his jaw. Her fingernails bite into his cheek as she squeezes. Her hazel eyes are fierce, blazing with rage.

“That is, until that little old bitch Marjorie Porter entered the contest. She enters and suddenly, the roses that I’d _wasted_ so much of my precious magic on, giving _only_ to them, were second rate to a fucking _iris?!”_ She bares her teeth and knocks his head against the brick, the edges digging into his scalp. Dean winces and struggles against her hold, but she’s still got him by the neck, her other hand busy turning small circular motions in her wrist, her fingers flexing slowly. Purple energy swirls around them, thrumming against Dean’s throat every so often like a pulse.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cas slowly crawl over to where Brandie is crouching in a corner underneath a table of succulents, and puts his hand on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. Brandie nods, and quietly makes her way to the door, which she closes and locks, flipping the sign to _closed_.

“So, when no one is looking,” Natalia continues her tale. “I pluck a petal. A prick of blood and a small sacrifice, and I’ve concocted a simple luck spell. As long as Marjorie was within a few feet of the iris, she was fine. Her luck was amplified. But the farther she got away from it, the more likely she was to...have an unfortunate accident. It was the perfect way to have my revenge without getting my hands dirty, you see.”

“You’d kill,” Dean gasps. “An innocent old lady? All because she won a damn flower contest?!”

“I was a _champion_ !” Natalia snarls. “I was the _best!_ Do you know what it’s like, growing up in a coven where perfection was _everything?!_ Where all seven of your older sisters were always prettier, more talented, more successful than you?! Where nothing you ever did was good enough?!” She presses harder against Dean’s windpipe, and he chokes, feeling his head begin to grow heavy and his vision blurry. “My sisters were always better than me at everything. My mother used to always preen about them. Fiona was good at love spells, Giovanna hexes, Cora at binding spells. But me? Poor little Nattie, the black sheep of the family. The only thing I was ever good at was plants, with herbology and botany. I could grow the most beautiful plants anyone had ever seen,” Her fingernails break the skin on Dean’s jaw and he winces as he feels blood run down his neck in rivulets. “And it still. Wasn’t. Good enough!”

“That ain’t anybody’s fault,” Dean grinds out, trying desperately to fight against the magic’s hold. He knows he was going to pass out if he doesn’t make her let go. “Doesn’t give you a right to kill innocent people when they beat you fair and square.”

“I don’t care about _fair!_ ” Natalia spits. “Now, thanks to that old hag, I have to start over somewhere! I had established myself here, had gained popularity and prestige and recognition, but now? No one is going to give my roses even half a glance!” She leans in close, and Dean can smell her breath as she breathes into his ear.

“And you know what? I’m taking that iris with me. And I’m willing to bet your little angel friend over there’s been cursed by it, hasn’t he? So what’s going to happen when I take it away, hm? What...unfortunate accident will befall him? A car hitting him as he crosses the street? He trips over a crack in the sidewalk and brains himself on the curb?” Her hazel eyes glint with malicious mirth. “Or maybe I’ll just take him with me? He may not be an angel anymore, but I’m sure he still has...uses.” She laughs lowly, and Dean feels dread permeate through the haze her grip on his neck has left him wading through at the thought of this bitch hurting Cas. Rage builds with it, swelling into the corners of his instincts, and he snarls at her.

“Don’t you fucking touch him!”

“Oh, strike a nerve, did I?” Natalia laughs again. “I forgot; he’s been bent over for you Winchesters for years. Oh, well. Guess I’ll just have to kill the bastard myself.” She grips his chin firmer, more blood welling around her talon-like fingernails as her magic squeezes his throat harder. “After I kill you, of course. No hard feelings, Dean.”

Dean chokes and struggles for air, hands clawing at nothing, fight or flight roaring in the pounding of blood in his ears.

He’s going to die, he realizes.

He _really_ fucking hates witches.

“Hey, bitch!” He hears a feminine voice call. Brandie.

Natalia’s magic’s grip on him lessens slightly as she jerks her head to look over her shoulder. Dean blinks against the black spots in his vision to see Brandie standing by the door. She’s holding Cas’s gun in her slightly trembling hands, having retrieved it from wherever it had clammored in the skirmish. At her side is the iris, still sitting in its cart.

Cas is nowhere to be seen.

“Yeah, you!” Brandie taunts. She wraps one hand around the handle of the cart. “You want this iris? Come and get it, Sabrina!”

Natalia growls and releases Dean’s jaw, holding out her other hand. With the flick of her wrist, she flings Brandie across the room like a rag doll. The girl hits the side of the brick wall and crumples to the ground; as she does, she yanks the cart containing the iris after her, and it falls from the cart to the ground, where the pot shatters against the poured concrete pathway.

Natalia howls in rage as the iris falls, its stalk bending at an angle that doesn’t bode well for its survival. Dean feels a flash of triumph flare through his chest.

“No!” Natalia screeches, and lurches for the iris on the ground. She lets go of Dean, who falls to his knees, choking and gasping for breath. He rubs his sore throat, wincing at the scratchy, raw feeling overtop the hickeys Cas gave him the night before.

“You fools!” Natalia cries as she holds up the severed iris stalk. Her hands are shaking, and she screams incoherently for a moment. “Look what you’ve done!”

“Karma’s a bitch, bitch.” Dean grates out, wincing at how hoarse his voice is.

“You’ll pay for this!” Natalia jumps to her feet, dropping the iris. She holds out her hand, and Dean feels the familiar grip on his throat. This time, Natalia picks him up effortlessly, dangling him above the ground, Natalia’s magic wrapping around him like a noose.

Fuck fuck _fuck!_

“Let him go!”

Cas’s voice rings out in the empty greenhouse. He has his palms out in a placating gesture as he steps towards them slowly. His blue eyes are blown wide. He’s scared, Dean realizes suddenly; he’s scared for him.

“Cas, don’t!” He manages.

“Shut up!” Natalia hisses, and Dean whimpers - fucking whimpers - as the hold on him raises him just slightly higher. She turns back to Cas and cocks her head, eyeing him from head to toe.

“I’m the one who bought the iris,” Cas says. “And you can have it. You lift the curse on me, and you can take the iris and leave town. We won’t follow you, won’t try to track you down. We’ll let you live.”

Natalia chuckles. “Right, like I’m supposed to believe that, coming from a cohort of the Winchesters?” She smirks. “Poor little optimistic Castiel. Your fall from Grace must have hit you hard on that little noggin of yours, because I’m not going to let you or Dean live.” She steps forward. “Here’s what’s going to happen: I’m going to kill Dean and the little bitch in the cornerㅡ” She nods to Brandie, who’s still unconscious. “ㅡand then I’m going to take what’s left of my iris and let you wallow in their blood before whatever happens to you happens. Don’t worry; you won’t suffer long. Word on the street is, old Marjorie died instantly when that bookend fell on her sweet little head. With any luck,  you’ll just fall and break your neck and it will all be over.”

“Please, do what you want with me,” Cas says. “But let Dean and Brandie go. I’ll take whatever happens to me, just don’t hurt them.”

“Cas…” Dean gasps. He’s barely clinging to consciousness, unable to hold on much longer. “Cas, no…”

“You really do think I’m stupid, don’t you?” Natalia says. She laughs. “Say goodbye to Dean Winchester, Castiel. You’ll see him again soon.”

“No!”

In an instant, Cas pulls on the release mechanism for the arm holster, and his angel blade drops into his hand. He charges at the witch, blade at the ready, but she easily dodges his attack, dropping her arm maintaining the spell. Dean falls to the ground, landing in a heap, pain flaring through his entire body as his head swims. He watches as Natalia flings out a hand, and curls her fingers, and Cas gasps in pain as she manipulates his sprained wrist. She keeps twisting, until finally, he sinks to his knees and drops his angel blade. With her other hand, Natalia summons the blade into her palm, closing her fingers around the hilt slowly, getting a weight on it.

“Thanks for the gift.” She says. She delivers a swift kick to Cas’s stomach, and he doubles over with a grunt of pain. “Now you just sit tight while I take care of that nasty Winchester problem, hm?”

“Please,” Cas gasps. “Don’t hurt him.”

Natalia kicks him again. “You think I won’t be _revered_ for finally taking out the infamous Dean Winchester?!” She spits out. “Killing him will be my shining achievement! I’ll _finally_ be doing something right!” She turns on her heel and walks back over to Dean, who, despite barely managing to keep his eyes open, struggles weakly against the magic holding his wrists immobile when she grabs hold of his hair and presses the tip of the angel blade below his chin.

He’s getting too old for this shit. Get thrown around and choked a little and suddenly he can’t take on a woman half his size.

“Killing you will be an honor.” She whispers silkily, pressing harder with the blade. “Maybe now I’ll finally be good enough.”

She moves her hand back, and Dean closes his eyes and waits for the killing blow.

It never comes. Instead, Natalia gives a strangled gasp, and Dean hears the angel blade clatter to the ground. He opens his eyes as Natalia’s grip on him loosens, her eyes blown and wide, and she slumps to the floor.

There, protruding from her neck, is a large piece of broken terracotta flower pot. Cas stands behind her, chest heaving, blood dripping from a scrape on his stubbly cheek, and hair a glorious mess.

Dean is at his feet in a moment, his pounding head and aching lungs protesting at the sudden movement. He reaches out and grabs Cas, who buries his face in Dean’s shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around him, fists tightening into his jacket.

“Shh, it’s alright, I got you.” Dean soothes as Cas struggles to find his breath, shaking slightly in his arms, “I got you, sweetheart, it’s over.”

“She killed Marjorie Porter,” Cas heaves. “She almost killed _you._ Over a fucking _iris._ ”

“But she didn’t.” Dean reminds him, gently rocking them both back and forth. “You stopped her. She ain’t gonna hurt anybody else, Cas. It’s over.”

Cas sobs against his shoulder, and Dean pulls back to cradle his face in his hands. Watery blue eyes stare up at him, one hand covering his wrist, and he leans in and kisses Cas softly. Cas tastes like blood and potting soil, but Dean doesn’t care. It’s over, and they’re safe, and alive. That’s all that matters.

“Well, that explains why I never got a call back.”

Dean turns his head to Brandie smirking at them. The left side of her face is bruised, and a cut oozes blood from her upper eyelid, but she’s smiling as she holds out his and Cas’s guns.

“Thank you.” Dean takes them from her, tucking them into his pants. He steps forward and gently touches her forehead to tilt her head back to get a good look at her eye. He hisses sympathetically. “Yeah, that’s gonna need stitches. You okay?”

“My head hurts,” Brandie says. “And that stings like a bitch but otherwise, yeah, I’m fine.”

“You were pretty badass.” Dean praises her. “That Sabrina line? Genius.”

Brandie grins. “Thanks.”

“Thank you, Brandie, for your help.” Cas says, smiling at her. “Your level head and quick thinking helped save both of us.”

“I should be thanking _you._ ” The woman shrugs. “If you guys hadn’t showed up, witch bitch probably would have killed me.” She frowns. “And, not to sound skeptical or anything...but do you guys do this a lot?”

“We’re hunters.” Dean confirms. “Me, Cas, and my brother Sam. We hunt the supernatural. Ghosts, ghouls, the odd shapeshifter.” He nods to Cas. “Cas here used to be an angel. He’s human now, but he used to be all wings and harps.”

Cas frowns. “I did not have a harp, Dean.”

“So...let me get this straight...you’re kinda like supernatural bounty hunters?” Brandie winces as the gash over her eye pulls as her eyebrows knit together.

“Yeah.”

“So guys are pretty much the Scooby Gang?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Awesome!”

“You’re very cavalier for someone who was just almost killed by a witch,” Cas observes, bluntly. He bends down and picks up his angel blade, fastening it back into its holster on his forearm.

Brandie shrugs. “I’d like to think I’m an open minded person.” She says. “Besides, I lived in a haunted house growing up, so it’s not that far fetched for me to believe other things could exist, too.” She looks down at Natalia’s body. Blood is pooling around her neck where the terracotta shard still protrudes. “What’re you gonna do about her? And that truck outside with all her shit?”

Before Dean can even open his mouth, Cas steps forward.

“I might have an idea.” He says. He looks at Brandie. “Do you have a rain barrel?”

 

***

 

After Brandie had dug up an old rain barrel from the storage unit out back behind the greenhouse, Dean and Cas had wasted no time shuffling Natalia’s petite body into it. They’d sealed it tight and had loaded it onto the moving truck, deciding to take it back to the bunker. The last thing they wanted was anything involving black magic or that was as cursed as the iris to end up at the Hastings Goodwill on their watch. That was a pain in the ass better saved for another day.

Dean pulls the door of the van down, and locks it closed. He wipes his hands on his jeans and grins at Brandie, who’d gone across the street to the urgent care after they’d stuffed Natalia’s body out of view in the barrel. She has nine neat stitches over her left eyelid, and aside from a mild concussion, she’s fine.

“Battle scar.” She’d said, and had winked.

“Got the blood cleaned up?” He asks lowly.

Brandie nods. “Went right down the drain.” She said. “No stains, even. Gotta love poured concrete and a high pressure water hose.”

“Good.” Dean nods. He sees Cas coming out of the greenhouse; he’s holding the remains of the iris in his hands. “You stay out of trouble.”

“I don’t make promises I can’t keep.” Brandie laughs. “But I hope to see you both around on market days.”

“Of course.” Cas says as he comes to stand at Dean’s side. “We’ll be sure to drop in from time to time.”

Brandie smiles at their joined hands. “You guys are cute together.” She says.

Dean feels a blush burning at the back of his neck, and he rubs at it with his free hand, unable to keep the stupid grin off of his face.

“Thanks, Brandie. We’ll see ya around.”

“Thank you again for saving my ass,” Brandie says.

“Ditto,” Dean responds.

With that and a small wave, Brandie turns and walks back into the greenhouse, shutting the door tight behind her.

“Alright,” Dean says, turning to Cas. “You sure you’re good to drive Baby home? She got you pretty good back there.”

“I’m sure, Dean.” He nods. “You drive the truck; I can drive the Impala just fine.”

“Alright.” Dean agrees, and kisses Cas’s forehead. “We should probably call Sam, let him know we’re alive and headed home so he doesn’t pull his hair out of his head.”

Cas grins slyly. “Or lose any more shoes.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs. “God, I fuckin’ love you.” He says affectionately.

Cas’s smile is worth absolutely everything.

“So,” Dean puts his hands on Cas’s hips, grateful that the greenhouse isn’t on the main stretch of road. Hastings is a pretty cool city, but Nebraska is still a red state. He pulls him closer. “Whatcha gonna do with the rest of that iris?”

Cas looks down at the flower in his hands. It’s a little wilted, now that it’s been broken, but the color is still stark against his tanned hands. He considers it for a moment before he looks back at Dean, big blue eyes serious.

“I have an idea.”

 

***

 

Marjorie Porter’s headstone isn’t hard to find at the Hastings cemetery on the edge of town. It’s a large, shining slab of polished pink marble, with a half ogee top, nestled beneath a shady maple tree. The freshly tilled earth from her funeral a few days prior is a dead giveaway as Dean and Cas slowly make their way through the grass towards it. They stop in front of it, and regard it for a moment.

 

**Marjorie Josephine Porter**

_December 14, 1931 - April 2, 2016_

Beloved Mother, Grandmother, Sister, and Friend

Romans 10:9

 

Cas doesn’t say anything as he steps forward and gently lays the iris atop the headstone’s mantel. He rests his hand on it for just a moment, as though in apology, and steps back. Dean reaches out and snakes his arm around Cas’s shoulders, pulling him in close so he can kiss his temple. Cas sighs contentedly and leans into the touch.

Could it really have only been twenty four hours since they’d started doing this?

It feels as though they’ve been doing it forever already.

They stand in solemn silence over the grave of a woman they’d never met, who’d changed their lives irrevocably. After a few minutes, Cas turns and buries his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, heaving out a shuddering sigh.

“Let’s go home.” He whispers. He turns his face and kisses Dean’s jaw. Dean feels him grin against his skin. “What was it you said when we got up this morning? You _vowed_ we’d come back to your bed and…” He leaves the sentence hanging, just as Dean had earlier that day, and mirrors him as he nips at the lobe of his ear.

Dean groans, dick already twitching with interest.

“That ain’t fair.” He whines. “I gotta drive that big ass truck all the way home _by myself_ , you know, not to mention we gotta burn this body once we get there.”

Cas hums. “Make you a deal,” he whispers in Dean’s ear.

“I’m listening.”

Cas’s blue eyes are shining with mischief. “First one home tops.”

Dean grins, and pulls Cas into a crushing kiss.

“Deal.”

 

 

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> Fun facts:  
> 1.) "Schlemiel" is a Yiddish word for "a chronically unlucky person."  
> 2.) The castile soap Cas uses is Dr. Bronner's Peppermint Pure-Castile soap. My phone autocorrected "castile soap" to "Castiel soap" once and I've refused to let this headcanon die ever since.  
> 3.) I carried around a stuffed bird (named Kevin) for an entire day to get a feel for what it would be like to cart around the iris everywhere I went. I got some interesting looks, to say the least. My heart goes out to Cas.  
> 4.) Brandie is based on a real person! Real!Brandie is my bestie of 21 years, and she was my sideliner throughout my writing process, letting me vent and listening to ideas into odd hours of the morning. (She also has the patience of a saint and was gracious enough to deal with my pausing episodes of Spn randomly through our binges, too.) Bonus: the injury story!Brandie sustains in the fight against Natalia actually happened to her while I was writing this fic, but it was a fight with the floor tiles of her bathroom and not a brick wall. (Her scar is gnarly and she totally won that fight, btw.)  
> 5.) Shortly after finishing this fic, I happened to find a circa 1930's buffalo nickel in my pocket change. I declared it my lucky coin, and carried it around with me for a few days. It became evident within those days it was my iris, because I kept stubbing my toes, tripping, banging my arthritic knees against tables, and earned a ghastly deep tissue bruise when my screen door handle grabbed me when I was walking out the door. I also lost my favorite necklace that I've taken off maybe four times in the four years I've had it, and my beaded bracelet snapped. Needless to say, that nickel came out of my pocket, and almost immediately, my luck turn in my favor, and my necklace was located, and I stopped running into stuff. That nickel needs a damn hex box.  
> 6.) If anyone found the random GISH reference, you get a cookie! (And if you're Gishing this year, may you ever be in Misha's favor!)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://doodlegirll.tumblr.com)  
> You can find Pimentogirl (Pimmy) on tumblr [here](http://pimentogirl.tumblr.com)


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